Asunder

“Hello, Dossam. Hello, Ana.” Councilor Sine brushed aside a wisp of gray hair that had escaped her bun. “This session is closed for now, but later the recording will be archived and available, all right?”

It wasn’t really a question, so I didn’t respond.

She went on. “The Council has been informed of yesterday’s incident. Please, tell us about it.”

“Okay.” My heartbeat fumbled as I sat and tried not to pay attention to everyone looking at me. “A bunch of us went to the beach yesterday. Sylph came. I brought out my SED to message you.”

“I remember,” said Sine. “Go on.”

“Then I turned on the music.”

“Why?” asked Deborl.

I was a terrible liar. “Um.” A really terrible liar. “I think Menehem mentioned something to me during Templedark. He said music calmed sylph.”

“And you never told us that before?” Councilor Frase lifted an eyebrow. “That would have been very useful information to have.”

“I forgot. I only remembered at the lake.” How much deeper could I dig this lie? It made me feel dirty, even though they’d throw me out of Heart if they knew the truth.

“Then the sylph followed your orders,” Councilor Antha said. “Yesterday, at the lake. Reports say you shouted at them to flee, and they did.”

“Do you have any idea why they did that?” Sine laced her fingers, not at all the friendly Councilor she’d been when we first met. Now she was the Speaker, always looking to see where people had cracks in their armor, and whether they might be lying. Her attention made me want to shatter.

“I—” The lines I’d prepared seemed like someone else’s words now. Everyone would know I was lying, and I couldn’t look to Sam for help, because these questions weren’t for him. “I don’t think sylph are stupid,” I blurted.

“Oh?” Sine waited.

“Well, people saw it yesterday: sylph sang along with music. They knew enough to recognize it as music and sing along with it without ever—I assume—having heard it before.”

“That’s fascinating,” Councilor Finn said, and his tone turned mocking. “But did you tell them to run away by singing it?”

I cringed. “No. What I’m saying is that if they’re smart enough to recognize music, maybe they recognize the similarities between humans. They fled Menehem during Templedark. Isn’t it possible they realized I look like him? Or perhaps they saw me with him that night and remembered?”

The Councilors exchanged glances, frowns.

“We don’t know what Menehem did to the sylph.” My lie grew a little more confident. “And we won’t until he’s reborn.”

They muttered at one another, and Sam gave me an encouraging look. This was his part. “Tell them the other thing you remembered about Templedark,” he said.

I bit my lip—real nervousness, not feigned—and the room quieted again. “I forgot about this too. I’m sorry, the night was just so—”

“It’s all right.” Sine almost looked like her old self again, like she cared about me. “People do tend to forget traumatic things. It’s your mind’s way of protecting itself.”

It seemed unlikely I could feel worse about all these lies, but if I didn’t tell them something, they’d keep pressing me. As long as I didn’t tell them how I knew things, I could give them some peace, and a reason to stop being so suspicious of me.

“The other thing Menehem told me was that whatever he did to Janan, it wouldn’t work again. No one would be able to make another Templedark.”

Several people exhaled and sat back in their chairs. No more newsouls. No more oldsouls would be lost. I hated not knowing how I felt about that, like I should be relieved too, but pieces of me felt disappointed and guilty. Why did I get to live? Why not all the others, too?

Would there only be seventy-three of us, and then we’d die, forgotten after our generation?

“So that’s your theory?” Deborl asked. “Menehem experimented on the sylph for eighteen years and they decided you were in on it too. That’s why they listened to you out there?”

It sounded stupid when he said it. And it was stupid. But it was better than claiming I had no clue—or admitting I’d been to Menehem’s lab and knew all about his research.

“Let it go, Deborl.” Sine didn’t look at him. Wrinkles spiderwebbed across her face. They were deeper than when I’d first met her. Visible stress of being the Speaker. “Ana’s brought us valuable information, and whether or not she should have told the sylph to go into the eggs doesn’t matter anymore.

They might not have done it, anyway.”

“The problem,” Deborl said, “is that Ana made a choice. She chose them.”

Sine eyed me, disappointment flashing through her expression. “That is true.”

“Can you blame her?” Sam asked. “If she did choose sylph, can you blame her at all, considering how people have treated her? Deborl, surely you recall that your friend Merton suggested newsouls should be killed like centaurs.”

Deborl and the other Councilors had the decency to look ashamed.

“Let’s not forget that ever since Anid’s birth, people have been throwing rocks at Ana, and the Council’s response has been to tell her not to fight back. Not to defend herself.” Sam stood hunched over the table, leaning on his fists. “Even if you don’t think she’s worthy of being treated like a human, what happened to the law you passed about not letting people attempt to kill her? It’s very poor leaders who won’t enforce their own laws.”

Frase and Deborl lurched to their feet. “I think that’s enough,” said the latter. “Dossam, we understand you’re frustrated—”

“Frustrated? ” Sam pulled himself straight. “We went to Purple Rose just to get away from people looking at Ana like Templedark was her fault. Lidea won’t even take Anid through the city without several friends along. She doesn’t trust people not to try to kill him.”

“We can’t control everyone’s actions—” started Finn.

Sam raised his voice. “You say Ana made a choice. So has the Council. I’d have chosen the sylph, too.”

“All right.” Sine rose, balancing herself with long, wrinkled fingers on the table. “That is enough.”

I edged closer to Sam, humiliated he’d had to stand up for me, but grateful he was brave enough to do it.

“The Council has been busy with city repairs and seismic studies. I’m afraid that we’ve been unable to focus on as many things as we’d like.” Sine glanced at everyone in turn. “However, we should make this issue higher priority. The arrival of more newsouls is no longer a possibility; it is a promise.”

Sam, still with an edge, said, “So you’ll discuss it now? Ana and I can wait while you all decide to uphold the laws you put in place. It shouldn’t take long.”

“No, not right now.” She slumped into her chair. “Now, Ana, I’m sorry, but I must ask you to leave the room.” Exhaustion filled Sine’s voice. “We need to discuss some things that wouldn’t be appropriate for you.”

Because it was so much worse than what I’d already been through? I scowled. “I can handle it.”

She sighed and glanced at Deborl and the other Councilors. “It’s not that we don’t think you can. It’s —Do you remember the law that was passed a few years ago?”

Ugh. The law that didn’t allow anyone to be a citizen unless they’d owned a home in Heart for a hundred years. They wouldn’t even have let me into the city if it hadn’t been for Sam offering to become my guardian and ensure that I was properly educated. Sam and I had done everything the Council asked, including lessons with every type of work someone would teach me, monthly progress reports, and a curfew.

“The next part of our meeting is for citizens only,” Finn said.

Sam’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the table. “So you care about this law, but not

—” I touched his elbow. “It’s not worth it.” If we provoked them too much, they might threaten to revoke his guardianship.