“You should just go for it,” says the blond, elbowing his friend. “She likes you. Everyone knows it.”
The dark-haired boy frowns, sifting a hand through the sand. “So what? What would be the point?”
“Uh, are you watching her dance? I can think of a lot of reasons, buddy.”
“She isn’t Garde. She’s not like us. We wouldn’t be able . . .” The dark-haired boy shakes his head gloomily. “Our worlds are too different.”
“She doesn’t seem to mind not being Garde,” the blond boy counters. “She’s having fun anyway. You’re the one hung up on it.”
“Why do we have Legacies while she doesn’t? It doesn’t seem fair, that some should be stuck being so . . . normal.” The dark-haired boy turns to his friend, an earnest look on his face. “Do you ever think about that stuff?”
In answer, the blond boy holds out an open palm. In it, a tiny ball of fire comes to life and quickly shapes itself into the form of a dancing girl.
“Nope,” he says, grinning.
The dark-haired boy concentrates for a moment and the little fire-dancer suddenly winks out of existence. The blond boy frowns.
“Stop it,” he complains. “You know I hate when you do that.”
The dark-haired boy smiles apologetically at his friend and turns his Legacies back on.
“Stupid Legacy,” he says, shaking his head. “What good is something that only works against other Garde?”
The blond boy waves towards the dancer. “See? You’re perfect for Celwe. She doesn’t have any Legacies, and you’ve got the crappiest one there is.”
The dark-haired boy laughs and punches his friend playfully in the shoulder. “You always know the right things to say.”
“That’s true,” the blond replies, grinning. “You could learn a lot from me.”
I don’t have eyes in the traditional sense here, but the vision seems to blink. In that split second, the boys sitting on the beach appear as the men they’ll grow into. The blond guy is handsome, athletic, with kind eyes—and I’m not paying any attention to him. Instead, I’m drawn to the hulking form seated beside him, deathly pale, with a ghastly scar around his neck.
Setrákus Ra.
This scene must be hundreds of years ago. Maybe more than a thousand. It’s back before Setrákus Ra joined the Mogadorians, before he became a monster.
A split second later, they’re teenagers again. The blond-haired boy pats young Setrákus Ra on the back as they continue to watch the girl dance. I’m shocked by how normal he seems, a young guy sitting on the beach, staring glumly at a girl he likes.
Where did it all go so wrong?
The vision melts away, blending seamlessly into another.
My grandfather and his friend stand in a giant domed room, a map of Lorien stenciled in glowing Loralite across the ceiling. They’re not boys anymore, more like young men. How many years later is this? It could be decades with the way we Loric age. If they were human, I’d guess they were in their late twenties, but who knows what that translates to in Loric years. They stand in front of a huge round table that grows right out of the floor, like it’s made from a tree no one bothered to cut down. Carved into the center of the table is the Loric symbol for “unity.”
I know that because Legacy knows.
Around the table are ten chairs, all of them filled with very serious-looking Loric except for two that sit empty. Stadium seating like in a big movie theater surrounds the round table on all sides. It’s packed today, every row at capacity, Garde squeezed in elbow to elbow.
This, I realize, is the chamber of the Elders. It’s where the Elders gather in the presence of the Garde to make the big decisions. The whole scene reminds me of senate setups I’ve seen on Earth, except with a lot more glowing Loralite. Currently, all eyes are on a slender Elder with straight white hair and gentle eyes. Aside from the white hair, he doesn’t look much older than my grandfather. But the way he carries himself projects an aura of seniority.
He is Loridas. He’s an Aeternus, like me, which means he can appear a lot younger than he actually is. Everyone listens respectfully as he begins to speak.
“We gather here today to honor our fallen,” Loridas says, his voice carrying through the entire chamber. “Our latest attempt to improve diplomatic relations with the Mogadorians was rebuffed. Violently. It appears the Mogadorians only accepted our delegation onto their world so that they could slaughter them. In the ensuing battle, our Garde were able to cripple their interstellar capabilities, which will keep them confined to their home world for some time. We still believe that there are those among the Mogadorians who value peace above war, but their society must reach this conclusion on its own. We Elders view further engagement with Mogadore to be detrimental to both our species and theirs. Therefore, all contact with Mogadore is forbidden until further notice.”
Loridas pauses for a moment. He glances to the two empty chairs at the table and a frown deepens the lines on his face. He suddenly looks much, much older.
“We lost many brothers and sisters during this latest battle, including two Elders,” Loridas continues. “Their given names, long ago set aside so that they might become Elders, were Zaniff and Banshevus. They served loyally on this council for many ages, shepherding our people through times of war and times of peace. We will reflect on them in the days to come. However, the chairs of Setrákus Ra and our leader, Pittacus Lore, must not sit empty. We move forward, as we Loric always do, and recognize that we did not only suffer losses on Mogadore. We also made heroes. Come forward, you two.”
When Lordias commands it, my grandfather and his friend step up to the table. The blond guy allows himself a grim smile and nods to the many people gathered in the gallery. On the other hand, my grandfather, tall and gaunt as he’d be centuries later, seems hardly aware of what’s going on. He looks haunted.
“Your quick action, bravery and powerful Legacies saved many lives on Mogadore,” Loridas says. “We, the Elders, have long seen your potential and know well the great things you shall accomplish for our people. Thus, it is on this day that we offer you these empty seats and welcome you as Loric Elders, to serve and protect Lorien, its people and the peace. Do you accept this sacred duty and swear to place the needs of your people above all else?”
The blond man bows his head, knowing his part in the ceremony. “I accept,” he says.
My grandfather, lost in his own thoughts, says nothing. After a moment of awkward silence, his friend nudges him.
“Yes,” Setrákus Ra says, bowing as well. “I accept.”
Years later, the blond man sprints down the hallway of a modest home. Broken glass crunches under his feet. The place is trashed. Tables are overturned, picture frames knocked off the walls, glass vases shattered into millions of pieces.
“Celwe?” he yells. “Are you all right?”
“In here,” a woman’s shaky voice responds.
He bursts through two bamboo double doors and into a brightly lit bedroom, the beautiful beach from before visible through the room’s sprawling windows. This room is as wrecked as the rest of the house. The bed is flipped over completely, bookshelves are toppled and their contents scattered and even the floorboards themselves are uneven. It’s like someone had a telekinetic tantrum in here.
Gazing out the window is the auburn-haired woman who many years ago danced away the night on the beach. Celwe. Hugging herself, she doesn’t turn around when the man enters the room.
“I met him right out there,” Celwe says, motioning at the beach. “He was so shy at first. Always in his own head. Sometimes I’m still surprised he got up the nerve to marry me.”
“What happened here?” he asks as he slowly approaches.
“We had an argument, Pittacus.”
“You and Setrákus?”
Celwe snorts and spins to face him. My grandfather’s childhood friend, the man who must have become the next Pittacus Lore. Her eyes are red-rimmed from crying but she seems unharmed otherwise. “Oh, don’t call him that. That title has brought nothing but trouble.”