The Keeper is pleased with my newfound compliance in the days that follow. The better I perform—on stage and at the parties—the more Euros that ballet makes and the more patronage bestowed upon the Kirov. This means more Euros for me, too. Euros that I send to my family in Finland, who desperately need the currency. Their MasterCards have been made worthless. The Rulers can do that to a family and a farm.
I should be happy. I tell myself that I am doing the right thing by dancing. The necessary thing. The very thing that Apple wants from me.
But in the solitude of my room—stacked high with other such rooms in a tower of dizzying heights—the disgrace is hard to bear. If my parents truly understood what I’m doing for those Euros, surely they’d beg me to return home. Surely they wouldn’t want the tainted currency, I tell myself.
Or would they? Isn’t my father the one who encouraged me toward this calling? Isn’t he the one who said Apple wants me to succeed at this career? Didn’t my mother nod along as he urged me toward this path? Sending me forth with her silence?
The very thought that my family might take the Euros no matter the cost to my Spirit makes me feel more alone. I turn on the Panasonic for distraction. But I am greeted with far worse than any pain.
Image after image of rising ocean waters appear on the device. The Media reports that—all over the world—the coasts are flooding. Ice is melting. The Media urges people to take heed and seek higher ground.
“No, it can’t be true,” I whisper to myself.
I feel woozy from the news and the barrage of horrible images. Kneeling before my Apple diptych, I begin to pray, “O Apple, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name …”
Despite my supplications, the blank diptych offers no answers. No solace. I feel darkness descend upon my Spirit, and as if in a dream, I’m drawn to my jars of remedies. I’ve been reserving them for performance days only, but would it really hurt to take one more tonight? Just this once? I place a Prozac on my tongue, and within a few ticks, I feel a relief that Apple alone used to provide.
XXIX: Aprilus 24 Year 242, A.H.
I am again imagining Elizabet’s last days when I hear the cry of “Relic.” It jolts me out of my daydreaming. I’d guessed that this crevasse was tapped out, something that often happens when the Test days are winding down. I’d guessed wrong.
“Relic,” I hear again, and I realize that it’s coming from right overhead. From Jasper. His voice is excited, and I stop my ruse of chiseling into the ice wall to listen. Even when he discovered his boat machine—an engine, I think I heard it called—he didn’t sound like this. What in the Gods has he found?
Digging as quietly as I can, I wait for the Boundary Climber to make his way to Jasper. I hear the Climber belay down, and I pray to the Gods that the crevasse structure will let me hear even a whisper of their conversation. Unlike the last Relic Jasper found, which I had to learn about from stray comments between Scouts.
“Are you ready to remove the Relic from the ice, Testor?” the Climber asks in the ritualistic way.
“Yes. It nears the surface, but hasn’t hit the air,” Jasper responds, also in the ceremonial fashion.
“I have the Relic bag ready. You may begin, Testor.”
Scrapes fill the air, and within a tick, I hear the familiar whoosh of the Relic removed from its grave of ice. Less familiar is the sound of the Climber letting out a little gasp.
“It has the sign of Apple on it!” The Climber sounds astonished; he’s lost the slow cadence of the ritualistic exchange.
“I know. Can you believe it?” Jasper answers, his voice giddy.
I freeze. The Apple symbol. Has Jasper just won the second and third set of Advantages? Have I lost the Laurels before they even come close to my head?
Tears well up in my eyes.
The Chronicle of Elizabet deserves to win. If the people of New North, and the Triad along with them, really listen to the story in Elizabet’s Relics, they will learn something far more important than the tired old tale that an Apple Relic will tell.
I hope I’m not just being petty and greedy. I know I should be happy for Jasper for making such a significant find, especially if our parents’ plans work out and we end up Betrothed. But I want to win; I don’t just want to be married to the Chief Archon like my mother. Even if we don’t end up in a Union, maybe I could strike a deal with Jasper, kind of like the rumors of past alliances, indeed the rumors that swirl around his uncle and my father. It would be fitting in a way. Yet, what would I ask for in exchange for my support of him? The only thing I really want is the Archon Laurels.
Only a bell or so until the final horn of evening, but still I go through the motions of pretending to work the crevasse wall. Even if I found something, nobody would care, not with the news of Jasper’s amazing discovery. Not even Aleksandr or Neils, if they ever had any interest in me at all, that is. As I scrape away at the stubborn ice wall, my mind drifts back to Elizabet’s Chronicle.
I know that I’ll return to my quill and paper when the sinik is over. Elizabet deserves to have her last ticks memorialized instead of being lost in the waters of the Healing. I almost feel I owe it to Elizabet to write the best Chronicle I possibly can. Is it Eamon’s death that propels me, too? Does it even matter? I will finish. And then I’ll send my Chronicles back to the Aerie and leave the decision to the Gods.
The Chronicle of Elizabet Laine, Part III
I stand on the stage of the Mariinsky Theater, ready for the orchestra to commence. All the Kirov Dancers are supposed to be practicing for the Ballet’s debut of La Bayadere, and the stage should be filled. But I am alone. The Panasonic reports have driven them all away. For hours Media has been advising people to evacuate the port city. One by one, the Corps Dancers left the stage, as their family members arrived at the theater in tears. Then the Principals decamped as loved ones stood at the stage door, begging for them to leave. But no one comes for me—my family is far away in Finland—so I stay. Where else would I go?
Anyway, even though I’ve been offering prayers to Apple just in case, I can’t fully believe the broadcasts. It doesn’t seem possible that the ancient streets of St. Petersburg could be submerged as Media threatens. The city has withstood so many ravages over the centuries, why would it fall now? And truly, would the Keeper really continue the Ballet if the world was about to end?
The remaining violinist begins to play, and I ready my body for the grueling opening of La Bayadere. Just as I’m about to extend my arms and legs for the arabesque, the Keeper yells out, “Elizabet! Come backstage!”
I lower my legs and arms and race to the back. What have I done wrong? The Keeper never interferes with the final rehearsal unless my dancing is absolutely horrific. And I’ve barely begun.
The Keeper is waiting just behind the red curtain’s final fold. “Gather your things. There is a Patron who will take you to safe passage on his boat. And me along with you.”
“A Patron?” What in the name of Apple is the Keeper talking about?
“Yes.” The Keeper whispers the Patron’s Water-name.
I recognize it. He is one of my most ardent admirers, one who sends flowers to the stage every evening and who sits alone in a special box seat leering at me night after night. One whose caresses grow more and more proprietary with every Patron party. He is rumored to be among the richest men in St. Petersburg. And the most corrupt. The very thought of him makes me shiver. Out of fear.