The Rise of the Fourteen (14 page)

Nuptia walks through the doorway in disbelief, unable to
accept the events of last night.
Our family money, my mother’s jewelry, all
of that is gone. The thieves did leave our altar, but it has been slashed and
torn apart, defiled, and made unsacred. How I can think that everything will be
made right by prayer when I have seen my own prayers slashed to ribbons.
Nuptia walks to the window, her bronzed face stroked by the last rays of the
sun.

I’m right to be worried. When the house was quiet, and
all were thought to be sleeping, I heard mother and father talking in the
kitchen. Their hushed whispers were loud enough for me, as I crouched, taking
cover behind a potted plant.

I remember mother’s words: “
How do we know that God
is watching?”
She fingers the wooden cross around her neck,
tracing the depressions left by the constant rubbing of her fingers.
We
don’t know if God is watching, not anymore. And that scares me. It scares me
more than I dare admit.

Nuptia opens the door slowly, wary not to make it creak. It
is dusk now and, as she closes the door behind her, she is bathed in the light
of a dozen pinks and violets. She breathes in the first of the night air,
closes her eyes, and faces the heavens.

For a moment, a peaceful smile crosses her face.
In the
mind, there is no reality. You can swim in the wild blue yonder if only you
just ask.
The bark of a stray dog startles her back to reality, and she
continues down the dirt road, further wearied by thoughts of peace.

The church is a battered building. It has withstood the
ravages of time and wind but stands with many scars. The exterior, which once
could have been white, is now a faded brown. The paint peels, even at the
slightest touch. Many of the windows are broken, and the entrance displays
suffer goring from wild animals.

Nuptia enters the church, lightly pushing the door open with
one hand. It shuts behind her, screeching on its hinges. It’s not a large
church. Less than half the village can fit in it at one time. But this church
has been home to all. It is where everyone prays for their newborn child, where
everyone says their marriage vows, and where everyone asks the Lord for
forgiveness. It is a fortress of faith.

I have sought refuge here in times of need. Prayer is our
way of communicating with the Lord, and he speaks with the voice of a thousand
singing stars gliding down from the heavens. But should I pray if God doesn’t
listen?

Nuptia glides through the aisles of pews, concealing her
inner turmoil well. She steps forward towards the altar, her eyes fixed warily
on the well-worn crucifix. The carving has seen better days, that much is
evident from the half-gone nose of Christ. She moves to kneel and begins her
prayer. Other bodies move around her, also seeking refuge.

Nuptia does not know how long she has stayed but, by the
time she rises from the cold church floor, there is cool starlight streaming
through the altar window
—a
nd
something else.

She cranes her neck, straining for a closer look.
Is it a
blur of branches or a tree maybe? Or … a face!
She yelps in fright, catching
a glimpse of two golden eyes. Her shriek echoes through the building, stopping
everyone in their tracks. There is a loud thud as a bible is dropped by a
startled priest.

All gathered stare at Nuptia, concern obvious in their eyes.
Aware of her flaming cheeks, Nuptia breaks into a run, barely stopping to
wrench open the heavy door on her way out. It swings shut behind her, and she vanishes,
her presence only marked by the pitter-patter of feet on soft dirt fading into
the night.

***

 “Demetri you idiot!”

“Sorem, keep your voice down.” The two figures huddle
closer together, shielded by only the back wall of the church.

“We were supposed to try and contact her, not scare the life
out of her.”

“You wouldn’t have done much better!”

“Well, we’ll never know, will we?” She smacks her forehead
in a gesture of frustration.

“Let’s just get back to the house. We don't know what those
kids get up to when we’re not there.” Sorem grudgingly takes his hand, and they
disappear into the shadows. The cool night air settles behind them, and all is
quiet once more.

“I still don’t understand. Why do I have to leave without
you?”

“It’s for your own good.” The boy shrugs nonchalantly and
leaves the room.

***

 Faber wanders the streets, drinking in the sweet nightlife
of a Beijing marketplace. The smells of stalls lined with the odd trinkets,
spices, meats, and other less savory foods permeate the air. He knows he
shouldn't be out this late, especially not on his own.
Isn’t this why I’m
being sent away? So I can’t do things like this?
He keeps walking, ignoring
his thoughts.

Just ahead, a brightly lit banner above a vendor advertises
delicious fried fish skewers. On a whim, he approaches the stall.

“How much for a skewer?” he asks, ducking his head. Despite
recently turning thirteen, he still has the social confidence of a petrified
hamster. Puberty isn’t everything.

His question is greeted with the broad smile of an elderly
local woman, her face made grubby by the cooking oil. “The skewer is on the
house. You seem like a special boy.” Her withered hands pass him a piping hot
spit. He bows slightly and rushes away, his face reddening just a shade. He
finds a little alcove and chews thoughtfully on one of the fish, trying to
forget how it was probably cooked.

He wasn’t surprised by what the woman said. He’s heard it
many times before.
You look special. There’s something different about you, a
little twist.
Despite having lived in China for a good chunk of his life,
his American roots always seemed to catch up with him.
I pass as one of
them. I keep my head down with my dark hair, but people know my face isn’t
completely Chinese. They can’t figure out what it is, but the difference is
always there.

 Faber weaves his way through the alleyways, making his way
back towards his parents' high-rise apartment. Faber refuses to look down at
his watch, guilt-tripping him with its green display. He slips through the
glass revolving doors soundlessly, making his way towards the elevators like a
ghost. The doors slide shut, and he begins the ascent, to live high above the
real world. The shining chrome paneling is blinding compared to the soft dim
lights of the marketplace.
Reality does sting sharply.

The elevator makes a little ding as he reaches his floor. He
exits quietly, grateful to see an empty hallway. The entranceway of his
apartment is a different matter.

 “Mom,” he says with a strained smile as if attempting to
swallow dirt, “Dad, shouldn't you be sleeping?"

“I’m not the one taking a … what is it? twelve-hour bus ride
tomorrow,” his dad retorts.

“Thirteen, actually,” his mom says flatly.

“Whatever,” his dad states, his firm gaze ensuring the
closure of the matter. “Fact is, this stunt you just pulled doesn’t change
anything. You leave for Nanxun in the morning, period, no questions asked.”

“But
—
why?” Faber puts
on his best puppy face, playing for the shiny eyes.

“Well, really your mother wanted
—”

“We both want what is best for you, Faber. All this
pollution makes me,
us
,
worried about your health.”

 “Do you even remember the last time I was sick?” He huffs,
proud of his newfound defiance. He clams up only moments later, stifled by a
stern look from his mother. “I'm going, I'm going,” he says, his hands above
his head in a placating gesture. He hurriedly crosses the foyer to his room,
eager to hide, like a wounded creature. His father gazes after him, deep pity
in his eyes.

“We must
do this for him,” his mother insists.

“Yes,” his father breathes, “for him,” barely believing the
words even as he says them.

Faber trudges towards the glass-arched bus stop, his
mother’s firm hand on his shoulder.
Father couldn’t even bring himself to
come. He knows this is strange, so why doesn’t he speak up?
He tries
focusing on the little things
—
the
rhythm of his duffle bag smacking against his thigh, the crisp smell of his
mother’s new perfume, and the sky, still a dull gray. But, all the same, his
thoughts are weighed with the cinder blocks of excitement, confusion, and
regret to be leaving. Like it or not, Beijing was home, and he would miss it.
More than he would care to admit.

Faber takes an unsteady seat on a cool metal bench.
Pointedly trying to ignore his mother, he pokes his fingers through the uniform
holes dotting the seat, pressing down until red rings appear on the tips of his
fingers.

“Stop that,” she says sharply. He crosses his arms, barely
acknowledging her comment. “I am doing this for you, remember that.” Faber
grunts non-committedly and continues staring at the sky. Her discomfort is
palpable. “I have something for you.” Faber swivels his head to look at her, a
blank look on his face. “It’s something your grandmother gave me.”

So, it smells like old lady?
Faber might not be the
nicest of boys, but he knows when to hold his tongue. He nods again. His mother
reaches into her purse and pulls out a small jade pendant on a thin golden
chain. It’s a smooth rectangle with various characters etched into the stone.
A
necklace? You’ve got to be joking.

“This is just a little thing. It will keep you safe until
you reach your aunt’s house.”

What hokum.
“Yes, Mother,” he says, lips pursed. He
accepts the pendant from her and places it around his neck. Surprisingly, it
feels warm against his skin. He strokes it once before tucking it under his
shirt, away from prying eyes.

As more and more people flood into the station, Faber knows
it’s nearly time to leave. Only moments later, a gray-blue bus pulls up, and
the mad rush for seats begins. He moves to join the crowd, but he is stopped by
a hand.

“Now, Faber, listen. Make sure you know when to get off. You
can’t get all the way to Nanxun on this bus. You get off first at
—
”

“Mom, I’ll be fine, alright?” He fixes her with his fluid
gray eyes, perhaps for the first time this morning.

She cracks a thin smile and nods. “Then go! Or you won’t get
a seat!” He quickly disappears into the crowd, lost amongst the sea of backs.
I’m
glad he’s gone. There was something lurking here. I felt it. He will be safer
in the country.
She turns to walk to the nearest cab stop. As she leaves,
she doesn’t notice the wilted potted plants or the two figures that remain
crouched behind them.

I left with the sunrise and now the sky darkens.
An
exhausted Faber is slumped against a bus window near the front of the vehicle.
This is the fourth bus he’s been on today, and he is completely wiped out. The
roads stopped being paved several hours ago and have since been gravel and
dirt.

A lone approaching wooden sign marks the last stop of the
day. The bus lurches over a bump and careens to a halt, all but missing the
signage. The tinny speaker just overhead begins a message in Mandarin as the
doors screech open. Faber slings his bag over his shoulder and makes his way
out.

As he leaves, a commotion erupts nearby, and Faber cranes
his neck for a better view. A heavyset man with a thick beard stands yelling at
a cowering young woman. Despite Faber's best efforts, Chinese has never come
easy to him, and he cannot make out what is being said. The man yells some more
and starts pulling the woman about by her hair. A ring of watchers stands
around them, but no one moves forward as she begins to scream. Faber pushes
through the horde, shoving at the mass of bodies.

“Hey! Leave her alone!” he says (as menacingly as possible),
putting himself between the woman and the giant. He immediately regrets his
choice as one of the man's meaty fists comes sailing towards his face. He holds
his hands up, bracing for the coming impact.

The man, however, draws back, cursing and howling. What must
have once been a large golden band on his finger is now a glob of molten metal,
blistering his calloused skin. Faber bolts away from the scene, not caring
enough to figure out what has just happened. His talisman grows warm beneath
his shirt, but he ignores it, focusing only on sprinting down the earthen road.
So, he doesn’t notice as an etching of an arrow appears on the side of the jade
tablet bouncing against his chest.

It’s been over a week since the blue-eyed girl arrived, maybe
even two. She hasn’t even left her room. The screams have continued as
regularly scheduled programming. Arden and Luna have it easy, sleeping at the
top of the sanctuary; they can’t hear a thing. The other girls have figured out
how to soundproof their walls (Callida went snooping in the library probably).
Ámpelos and Nuntios crank up their music and fall asleep to sounds of guitar
riffs.

Me? I put up with it, covering my head with my pillow and
rolling over. Sometimes I’ve even gone over to her room with some water or
something. Either the door is locked or she throws things at me till I leave.
Even when she’s throwing a vase at my head, she’s beautiful. The electric blue
of her eyes has not faded in the least. But I still don’t know why
….

***

There is a harsh crack as the wooden drill sword smacks
against his ribs.

“Terrance, pay attention will you?” Anima snaps. “I wanted
this extra practice so that I might
actually
beat Nuntios in the ring. I
still have the bruises he gave me! But you just refuse to focus!” She huffs
loudly and stalks off, leaving the sword on the floor. Terrance picks it up,
slides it into the rack along with his, and makes his way to the stairs.
A
good lie down would be nice.
He massages his sore torso thoughtfully.
And
perhaps some ice.
He continues up the stairs, eager to be back in his room.

Terrance is still awake, despite it being the dead of night.
He has been sitting up on his bed for some time, his bruises still tender. He
checks the ancient clock built into the headboard. He groans in frustration.
So
much for getting up early for training.
He pulls himself to a standing
position.
I’ll get some water, that’s what I’ll do.

He swings open his door, not bothering to close it as he
starts down the hall. Just as he passes a vase of flowers, he hears a scream
from down the hall. He jumps, nearly knocking the vase over.
Water can wait
.
He rushes to the door and pushes it open. Unsure of what to expect, he braces
himself for an onslaught of projectiles.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says
cautiously, outstretched hands shielding his face.

“I’m not okay. But there’s nothing you can do about it.” He
lowers his hands in disbelief. The only other words she’s said had been some
variation of “get lost” or “go away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, still confused by this
new openness.

“Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault,” she replies,
frustration clear in her voice. She rakes her hand across her scalp, brushing
stray hair out of her eyes.

“Why were you screaming?”

“I had the same bad dream I have every night. End of story.”

He looks at her with pity.
What must it be like, to have
the same nightmare every night?
“Tell me about it.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“No, no, no! I just wonder what kind of dream would make
someone scream at all hours of the night for weeks on end,” he says.

She gives him a weak smile. “Thanks for caring, I suppose.”
She wrings her hands nervously, wary of having such a long conversation. She
shivers slightly when she realizes Terrance isn’t going to leave. He notices
and walks towards her bed slowly.

“You cold?”

“No,” she says stiffly. She shrinks back against the
headboard, tucking the sheet around her. Terrance freezes, slightly hurt. She
sees the light change in his eyes.
Oh god, did I insult him?
She sees
the slight tensing of the muscles in his jaw, the uncertainty in his eyes. She
sighs heavily. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, twirling a strand of hair between
her two fingers. “I’m not good with …
people
.”

She immediately regrets her choice of words as Terrance
begins to laugh. “Me too.”

She smiles thinly, but secretly she’s glad. Terrance smiles
back at her, happy that she still hasn't thrown anything. He sees her slight
discomfort, though, and motions towards the door. “I should probably let you
get some sleep.”

“Won’t happen,” she says acidly. “I’ll just wake up again.”

“Too scared to dream?”

She doesn’t trust herself to speak and simply nods, avoiding
eye contact. The following silence settles uncomfortably between the two.
Worse
than conversation,
she muses. She looks up, forcing herself to look
Terrance in the eye. She sees the unspoken question in his face. She sighs
again.
This might be the only person who will ever talk to me.

Memories flit through her mind.
All those hours of
lurking in dark back alleys, stealing leftover food, and clutching a knife in
my shaking hands.
An involuntary shudder ripples through her body. Terrance
doesn’t hesitate in coming over to her bed and pulling the sheets up to her
chin.

She sits against the headboard silently, watching the
fluidity of his movements. She takes a deep breath, preparing to take the
plunge. “I was eight,” she whispers. Terrance looks at her, his eyes wide in
amazement. “I was eight when it all began.

“I grew up in
Bifröst,
Iceland, on the outskirts of town. It’s a small rural area; we had to pump
water and everything. My parents … they knew about my …
gift.
” She spits
out the word as if it leaves a foul taste in her mouth. “No one else knew. I
kept it to myself and was homeschooled. The outside world was a mysterious and
terrifying place to me.”
It didn’t stay that way for long
.

“That summer people began asking
questions. We had ‘tourists’ come and ask for directions from time to time.
They stayed too long and asked too many questions. How long had we lived there,
and such. I never liked them, but my mother was always so kind
.
” Her
eyes mist over for a moment. Terrance stands silently, unable to speak.

“She sent me out to fetch
water one day while one of the people was there. I didn't like it, but I always
listened to her.” She pauses a moment but then steels herself and continues. “I
was barely done pumping water when I heard the screaming. It was high at first,
high enough to shatter glass. Then it was muffled, muffled as if the voice was
being smothered. I took off running toward the house, barely feeling the ground
beneath me.”

Her shoulders are shaking at
this point, but she pushes forward, her words beginning to blur together. “As I
entered through the back door, I grabbed a knife from the kitchen. That is what
saved me. When I reached the foyer, I saw my mother and father. They were
gasping for air, clawing at their throats. I ran to my mother’s side. There was
a strip of black cord around her neck, crushing her windpipe. I tried to cut it
free, but to no avail. It only loosened slightly, allowing for a few more
seconds before death.”

She is crying as she speaks
now, silent tears flowing. “My father must have been dead by then. But I don't
know. His body was gone. Only traces of yellow powder were left. I returned my
focus to mother, but she was gone too. Only the barest scent of her remained.”

Terrance shifts his stance
awkwardly, unsure if he should comfort her or not, aware that this is the
longest she's talked
in weeks, maybe forever for all he knows.

“I ran from that house, a little girl in a blue dress,
clutching a steak knife, running on the dirt road all the way into town. By
nightfall, I was muddy and exhausted. I fell asleep curled beneath an old
truck, sticky tears drying on my face.

“The next day Andreas found me. He was kind to me, almost
too kind. He rolled me out from underneath that truck, as battered and dirty as
I was. He took me to a cozy townhouse. It was big and spacious. He fed me, gave
me money, and treated me like I was his daughter.” She swallows hard. “But,
most importantly, he trained me to kill.” Terrance's jaw clenches, and he feels
his breathing speed up.
To kill?
He rocks back and forth on his heels.

 “I refused to use my
gift,
not after that magical
attack on my family. Andreas trained me with knives, darts, swords, the full
array. I was angry. I wanted vengeance. I trained from dawn till dusk every day
to keep that fire alive. Whoever killed my parents, I wanted them dead. I
would
not
allow them to live. Andreas was more than willing to comply. And stupid
as I was, I trusted him.” Her face burns, hot with tears and regret. “For years
I lived with him. I woke at dawn to train and only slept the bare minimum. Sometimes
I forgot my goal. I was blinded by rage.

“That changed when I got my first instruction. I was
fourteen then. Andreas told me he had found someone linked to my parents’
disappearance. I put on my battle dress, tucking knives into my sleeves and
hidden pockets, strapping daggers to my legs.

“I could barely hear what he was saying over the sound of
blood rushing in my ears. Justice was about to be done. But then he whispered
the name.
Auðun.
I had almost forgotten the boy. He was my closest
neighbor when … I lived at the house. He was a scruffy boy who always had dirt
on his face, and his hair was never brushed. He always came over asking for
some eggs or milk.

Andreas repeated the name. ‘You have to kill him. Do you
understand?’
Auðun. Auðun.
I couldn’t bring myself to kill him.
No matter how many times I lurked in the bushes by his house or outside his
school, I could not draw my weapons. He walked on, his oblivious face still
round and dirty. He was a memory of the house
—
a happy one
—a
nd I couldn’t bring myself to destroy that.

“Andreas was furious, every time I came home empty-handed. I
always made some lame excuse
—t
oo
many people, bad light, etc. The final time is what ended it. He told me to
kill the boy and be done with it. When I returned, blades clean, his rage
erupted. He screamed and cursed. Told me I was worthless. I was an assassin who
could not kill. Most of all, he repeated that I was betraying my parents,
betraying their memory.

“He pinned me against the wall, with a wave of his hand. I
could feel a black cord growing around my neck, and I
—
I knew it was
him
. I don't know how it happened, but
there was a flash of blue light and his hand went limp. He cradled it as I ran,
circling through the rooms in the house.

“He followed me, continuing his calls. As I ducked behind a
dresser, I made a decision. I slid a single blade from my boot and, as I rose, I
sent it sailing through the air. The point landed true and deep in Andreas's
chest, going through his heart.

“I didn’t regret my decision, I
don’t
regret my
decision. But I could not watch him die, his limp body twitching. As I did when
I was eight, I fled the house, taking to the streets
. I lived off of scraps and slept in back alleys.

“I haven’t killed since. I’ve
only survived. When Demetri and Sorem found me, they knew my name. They said ‘
Lacria
we’re not going to hurt you.’ I hadn’t heard my name spoken aloud for two
years. That was the day I came here, kicking and screaming all the way.” Her
voice cracks at the end of her sentence.

Terrance sits down, in awe of
the girl beside him. Lacria buries her face in the folds of her bed sheets,
unable to even look in Terrance's direction. He moves over to the bed and tentatively
places an arm around her shoulders. She tenses slightly at his touch but
doesn't move away.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her
voice muffled by the fabric.

“Don’t be.”

Lacria lifts her
tear-streaked face to look up into Terrance’s green eyes and smiles, happy to
have finally told someone her story.

They sit in silence for a
while, breathing together, but eventually Lacria begins to unfurl herself.
Terrance hastily retracts his arm as she swings her legs off the bed. Two
petite, slipper-clad feet meet the floor softly. She stretches her arms, making
her joints crack.

“I feel like I can breathe
better now,” she says, feeling more rested than she has in ages. “I do wish I
could open the window or something. This room is so stuffy.”

“Have you even left this room since you got here, Lacria?”

“No,” she says sheepishly.

“How would you like to get some fresh air?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? How do we even get out? I
wasn’t exactly escorted through a front door. They brought me in through a
portal.”

Terrance smiles. “There’s one useful thing I learned from
Callida’s snooping.”

“Callida?”

“Tell you later.” He motions for her to move off the bed.
Taking a deep breath, he raises his finger and sends a bolt of green light at the
window, shattering the glass. Lacria gives him a judgmental look as he leans
out the “open” window.

Terrance scans the landscape before spotting something useful.
There are vines growing on the roof. Perfect.
In his mind's eye, he sees
the vine growing longer and longer till it reaches the ground below. He opens
his eyes and the vine has grown.
So, Sorem wasn’t wrong about that
technique. Well what do you know?

Lacria has joined him by the windowsill, looking in
disbelief at the makeshift rope. “You expect me to climb down on that?”

“Would you rather stay in your room?” She sticks her tongue
out at him but allows him to help her over the railing. “You better be right
behind me.”

“Of course.” Soon the two of them have disappeared into the
night, the creeper becoming slack once more.