A Fortress of Pebbles

The Masters had their own ways of traversing the Spire of Masteries, leaving Aissaba, Tassadu, and her mother to take the long spiral staircase together. There was an elevator powered by map magic, of course, but Aissaba wasn’t exactly in a rush to arrive at her own investigation.

“So you know Sanskrit?” said Aissaba.

Her mother had been lost in thought most of the way up the stairs, fingertips rolling the glowing blue pebbles on her necklace. Aissaba’s question brought her out of it – but only partly. She’d been like this for years, ever since the demotion: occasionally here; forever far away.

For once, Aissaba understood the feeling (Blink: She was filing out of a dented school bus in the middle of a cold Montana morning, Orion clutching her jacket and breathing gusts of mist.) Tassadu lagged behind, eyes down, as if the stone steps might want to trip him. Haunted looks – the new Fortress vogue.

“Studied a lot of ancient languages back then,” said her mother.

“What were you yelling at him about?” asked Aissaba.

Step. Step. Step. They were somewhere above the Hall of Life by now.

“Let’s just say…” said her mother. Step, step, step – long enough for Aissaba to wonder if she’d missed the rest of the sentence during one of her blinks. The visions were becoming longer and more vivid. (Blink: A cellphone in hand. Trying to dial her mom. Trembling so much that Orion had to do it with her, Ouija board style.)

“...it was Sanskrit for, ‘I told you this would happen.’”

“This?” said Tassadu behind them. “What is ‘this’ exactly?”

Her mother fell silent, as she always did when asked about the old days – about her research. A lot of the top scribes did classified research. And apparently, when you get demoted to cafeteria lady, it stays that way.

The only hint Aissaba had ever received had been one evening in her mother’s lavish quarters – a few months before the demotion. That very day, Aissaba had finished her year with the Master of Language and exchanged her blue robes for white ones – the color given to students working on a thesis. The color of purity and blank pages.

Aissaba had come over to cook for her mother, who was working late – blue pebble to her forehead, eyes closed as she sat at the dinner table. In those days, Aissaba had a habit of talking to herself – or rather, pretending to talk to her mother while she worked. Her spatula scraped vegetables simmering on a red hot slab as Aissaba said, “Two more zucchinis and some pepper, and it’ll be ready. Had to throw the squash out. It was rotten.”

At this, her mother had gasped, pulling the pebble from her forehead. “What did you say?” She’d gotten up before Aissaba could respond, face twisted in fear and fingers entangling Aissaba’s brand new robes. “What word did you just use?” she had insisted, like someone escaping a nightmare – half her mind still trapped there.

“I threw out the squash?” Aissaba had said. “It was rotten.”

“Rotten,” her mother had said, nodding. “Yes, squash does that. It rots.” She had nodded and nodded, eyes moving as if working through a difficult calculation. Eventually, she had shaken off the nightmare, and they’d shared a pleasant dinner together.

This was, however, the last time Aissaba had talked out loud to herself. No more pretend conversations with mommy. Sometimes childish habits need to be thrown out. Like rotten squash.

(Blink: Somehow, Orion still had his backpack. He pulled out an apple for Cassandra. It was so bruised it was practically mush. She bit into it, saw brown, and froze. [Blink: Aissaba trudged up the steps, almost to the Hall of Language, the words “rot” and “rotten” churning in her mind.])

Aissaba stumbled, and Tassadu caught her – practically his second job. Master of Catching Clumsy Fools.

“Mom,” said Aissaba, “I think something bad is happening.”

Her mom paused with her hand on the door to the Hall of Language. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said. “They’re going to put you in a room while they investigate whatever went wrong with the lottery system. They’ll come in and ask you questions. They might even question you separately. Just tell the truth. Nothing that happened today is your fault.”

She started to open the door, then reconsidered.

“Tell me,” she said. “Is there any chance – however small – that either of the two children managed to leave the Fortress in possession of any magic pebbles?”