“Sounds like something made up.”
“It’s real. I’m going to find it.”
Caliph sat up. “Then it’s a sure candidate for the printing press—”
“Listen, you fool. Stop joking. I need you. You have to find me after you graduate. It’s important. I love you Caliph.”
His eyes narrowed. She had never said it before.
“You love me?”
She smiled and leaned in to kiss him.
Caliph stopped her.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“So single-minded—” She tousled his hair. “I love that about you.” She bent forward, plucked at his mouth with her lips; moved her leg slowly over his waist and brushed her warmth against him.
“What aren’t you telling me?” He pushed her gently away.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “But I’ll tell you this . . . I know a secret about you . . . something nobody else at Desdae knows.” She made the southern hand sign for yes. “You’re Hjolk-trull. Like me.”
Caliph frowned. “What? What does that matter? How . . .” He raised his hand.
“I’ve fallen in love with you,” she whispered. “You know I mean it. I wouldn’t have dragged you up here so often if it weren’t true. Think, Caliph. You and I—we don’t even belong to a country. We belong to the stars. We can make things right . . .”
“Right? The only thing wrong is you just brought up—” He stopped, sighed. “I don’t belong to the stars.”
Sena tried to regroup. “Caliph, I didn’t mean . . . look-abrupt, tomorrow I’m gone . . . don’t . . . you love me?”
It was a mistake. She saw it in his eyes, black mirrors that reflected her lie. He knows. He knows I wouldn’t have asked if it were true. Stupid. Stupid. But it is true! It is! I need this. For the recipe, I need this to be true.
Now what? Would he remember her like this? Framed in the groundwork of an agenda he couldn’t begin to understand? She could feel it, silly and stupid, how her few sentences had excavated a chasm between them. But she was smart enough to know that it was time to shut her mouth. Leave. Act hurt. Give him time to think and hope that the sex had been good enough to compensate for her last impression.
She stood up and pushed the toggles through the eyelets on her cloak.
The clurichaun, sensing that its duties were over, whirred off on a brave expedition through the clutter.
Yella by
n, she thought and then out loud, “In two years, we’ll see. Hynns
ll
,3 Caliph.”
The Old Speech formality left Caliph in the dark, listening to the sound of wind under the shingles and goatsuckers in the trees.
In the morning, Caliph watched from an obscure rain-flecked dormer as Sena went through the ritual in her scholar’s robe. He felt sour. He wanted her to come looking for him. The ceremony made his stomach hurt.
He hadn’t noticed her talking with anyone beforehand but immediately after the ceremony, a group of women in somber cloaks met her on the lawn. Their cowls covered their heads and faces against the rain. He wished he could hear what they were saying.
Sena glanced over her shoulder as though trapped, looking for help. Maybe she could feel his eyes. Caliph jerked his face back from the glass. She did not look happy to see the women and Caliph wondered who they were. Sena didn’t talk about her family. It was a preclusion they shared.
For several minutes he deliberated. Finally he dashed, nearly falling down four flights of stairs. He struggled with the heavy door and burst out onto the lawn.
A light mist greeted him on the face, but Sena and the women were gone.
2 O.S.: Expletive: “Mother’s shit!”
3 O.S.: “Shade and sweet water.”
CHAPTER 4
Two years later Caliph dreamt the dream.
It had been with him since memory, coming and going on subliminal cycles. In the dream, man-shaped shadows beaded and ran like black oil across machines and towers made semi-acrylic with soot. Police sabers glittered amid a chaos of searchlights and shouts.
As always, the dream man plucked him from the confusion and carried him away.
It was not a dream that needed interpretation, not a misty plunge into oneiromancy or egocentrism. The tatters of his childhood parted slowly, dragging like strips of heavy cloth off Caliph’s brain, releasing him to the waking world.
Spring filmed the dormitory air with an almost imperceptible fetor, a warm moist stink that evanesced from the wood around his windowpane. The High College graduated on the tenth but Caliph had opted to stay for spring semester. It was a decision he couldn’t explain adequately even to himself. He had amassed enough credit hours to graduate early, yet he remained.
The Council wouldn’t allow it to happen again. In Psh they would come for him.
Caliph looked out the window at the newest crop of not-quite-alumni. No more classes. No more tests. They had nothing left but to break the code in as many ways as eight pent-up, frustrated years could help devise. They would smash it. They would trample it; crush it completely. By week’s end they would leave its smoking wreckage in their past and move on to new lives and new locations. The chancellor appeared un-announced at the frat house once or twice but everyone knew that, for the seniors, his rule had ended.
Spring was an exodus. Caliph washed, got dressed and went outside.
A venerable building crouched at the edge of the lake, poised in the shade like a giant toad, ready to either jump into the water or fall apart at any moment. Caliph went inside, unlocked the musty box with his number and found two letters, one from his father, the other in a familiar boyish cursive that made his stomach feel like it was falling. He opened the first.
Tarsh 4, Day of the Sowing
Caliph,
I got word of your success at school today but the Council says you plan to stay another semester. Don’t do it. Come home. There’s turmoil near Clefthollow. Unfortunately I have men there to lead and will not likely be able to attend your graduation. Such are the responsibilities of serving the Council. I smile when I think that I may soon be serving you.
—Jacob
Caliph’s hand crumpled it and released it somewhere near the trash. It was forgotten even before he turned the second letter over for further inspection. He could feel something heavy inside. It wouldn’t be drivel. This letter would require something of him. His stomach fell again. Unable to do anything else, he tore off the corner with a flourish and shook its contents into his palm. A date nearly a month old crabbed the top of the page.
Mr
sh 8, Y.o.T. Falcon
Caliph,
Congratulations! I don’t have to tell you that you’re brilliant.
I have my own place now, not far from Sandren, in the Highlands of Tue. You could be here in a week if you take the steam rail. I enclosed a map. The fact that you did most of my cartography for me is my only excuse.
I have something to show you. Something that might put our last conversation in a better light. And no, that’s not the only reason I want you to come.
It gets lonely out here. I bought some things I know you like. I can probably find a use for them if you don’t show up but . . .
Don’t worry. If you decide against coming—for any reason—I’ll understand and wish you good luck. Hynns