Excerpt #1 (Marit)

“What would you say to getting married?” Torin blurts, and it takes me a full minute to comprehend what he’s said.

“We’re sixteen,” I tell him, as though he doesn’t know. Also, Torin doesn’t think of me that way—at least, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t—and I couldn’t think of him that way if I tried. Why he would suggest such a ridiculous notion is beyond me. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I don’t mean—I just feel like if you were married, we could appeal your status. Think of it. You wouldn’t be Unsanctioned anymore. You could have a life, Mar. A real life.” He swallows, the knot in his throat bobbing with the movement. I can’t stop staring at him in the fading light, wondering if he’s lost his ever-loving mind. “I mean, it’s not like we like each other like that, but with you in hiding all your life, who’s going to ever find you? No one else will ever have a chance to propose. You’ll be in hiding forever. What kind of life is that?”

I blink at him, angry and confused at once. At least he admits we don’t feel that way about each other. The admission is a relief. And also a sting.

Before I can respond, he continues. “At some point, Da is going to expect me to choose a wife. Once I do, I won’t be around to rescue you from your four walls anymore. Then what? What will you think of your isolation then?”

He’s right. When he marries, whenever that is, I’ll lose the only friend I’ve ever had. It might be worse than if I’d never known him at all.

“I’ll still have Mamey and Mama Elnor,” I retort. 

But the excuse rings hollow even to me. They’ll eventually pass. Then what? I’ll be a middle-aged woman alone, in hiding. I’ll be forced out of the only home and land I’ve ever known, into the wilds, where I’ve never been. I won’t survive.

“Forget it,” Torin says. “I knew I shouldn’t have brought it up. Just…forget it.”

But I can’t. I’m angry. Angry at Torin, even though I shouldn’t be. Whatever unpleasantry the future might hold is hardly his fault. I wish he hadn’t brought it up, sure, but it’s not like I haven’t thought about it, even obsessed over it from time to time. And yet. I’d rather pretend and live in the present moment. Torin’s mind has never been in the present, though. He’s always thinking about what comes next.

I seethe.

“Don’t be mad. Marit, please don’t be angry with me.”

I don’t want to be, but the stupid oaf has gotten me riled, and now I just want to go home. Mamey always says my temper is hotter than a burn bug in a chili patch.

The stars begin to dot the sky, and I’m going to have to start planting the far plain with maize tonight. It’ll be a long night, which is probably for the best because I’ll be able to blow off some steam.

“Let’s go.” I sit up and brush the dirt and grass from my rear and the back of my tunic.

Torin doesn’t argue. He’s going to sulk now, but he can stew in it for a while. I’m not interested in making amends. He’s the one who brought up the idiotic proposal anyway.

He walks behind me, the distance between us growing until I reach the house. I turn and nod to him in the dark. He puts up a hand in goodbye (which I ignore), then pivots and follows the path that will take him to his own house on our side of the mountain. I’m too harsh on him. I know I am, and yet I’m emotional tonight. And I’m mad that he’s the one who made me feel this way.

His huddled form fades into the distance. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and I’m kind of surprised he isn’t retreating faster, given his level of humiliation, because Torin will feel terrible about this for months, maybe years. I, on the other hand, will fume quietly for a few days and let it be by the next time he comes to bail me out.

It’s only as I turn the knob to the front door that I realize I’ve forgotten to grab Jonas’s catmint. I sigh. He’ll be mad at me now, too. Just what I need.

But when I step across the threshold, I’ve got bigger problems than a cat with attitude. Mama Elnor stands at the counter peeling potatoes, and Mamey sits at the table with her arms crossed, a foot tapping impatiently on the floor. The ledger is out, but she’s not really reviewing it. She’s waiting for me.

She looks up at me expectantly, her face a mix of relief and anger. Before she can launch into a tirade, I hold up a hand and start speaking.

“Yes, I know,” I say. “But I’m home in time for planting.”

“Marit Amelia, you know full well you are not to jump out the window like some escaped convict. For crying out loud, we have a front door! You’ve just used it to come back in, so I know you’re aware of how the door works. This isn’t a prison, girl! Stop acting like it is.”

Oh, boy. She’s on a tear. I know better than to offer an argument, but I do it anyway. “Except that when I try to use the front door, you always think up some convenient chore that keeps me in the house! I’ve tried the door thirty-eight times this year alone. It’s no wonder I prefer the window. At least I know I’ll make it out of the house that way!” I shout back. 

It’s stupid, and I don’t know why I’ve said it, even if it’s true. Mamey’s just trying to keep me safe. Guilt creeps in. I cover my mouth with a hand.

“I’m sorry.” I am. I wish my temper wouldn’t always get the best of me, but it does more often than not these days.

A knock at the door prevents Mamey from replying. Figuring Torin needs to apologize again because he can’t ever let anything go, I fling the door open even though I never answer the door.

Two AG guards stand in olive-green uniforms with decorative red buttons on their cuffs and lapels. For a moment, I want to turn around and yell at Mamey that it’s not a very funny joke. But it’s not a joke. The Guard is standing at our door.

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Excerpt #2 (Greyson)

The Master of Ceremonies steps forward through the shimmering shield around Naomi’s staging area, and it’s as if the shield has enveloped him as he moves. It’s created a similar barrier around him, a personal bubble to keep him safe from whatever it is Naomi will soon wield.

He leans forward, the shield shimmering iridescently with his movement, and speaks quietly with Naomi before leading her by the elbow to the table opposite the elements—the one with all the vials. If I’m honest with myself, I swear the number of vials has doubled since I first entered the staging area. There must be five hundred vials. A thousand. I don’t know how we’ll ever choose ones that match.

I glance at my parents in the audience and swallow. My mother has her hands pressed to each other and clasped to her chin as though praying for a favorable outcome, and my father gives me a stern nod. Dhiren, however, looks exactly as I might have expected — smug. A turn to his mouth and a gleam in his eye makes me think he believes Naomi and I will end up with some lame power like summoning crickets by the thousands and making them sing. I press my lips tight and look back to Naomi again. Dhiren can take his light-creating ability and shove it. Naomi and I? We’re going to do alright.

I hope.

The Master of Ceremonies finishes anointing her with the special oils and presents her with the vials. Beneath my ribcage, my heart thuds a little harder.

Pick something good. Please pick something good. I find my fingers tightening on the edge of my chair as I lean forward, so I take a deep breath and force them to relax.

Naomi chooses her vial. I doubt anyone in the audience can see her hand trembling, but I’m sure the Master of Ceremonies can, and, since I’m only fifteen feet away, I can, too. Her eyelids flutter as they raise to meet my gaze. She looks as though she’s going to be sick, but she hands the vial to the master of ceremonies. I strain to see any markings on the glass, but if there are any, they aren’t visible. At least not from where I sit.

The Master of Ceremonies nods and blesses the vial before he loads it into the syringe gun. He wipes Naomi’s forearm with alcohol, then inserts the needle into her arm and depresses the plunger trigger, dispensing the clear liquid into her veins. She squeezes her eyes shut and looks away. The audience can’t see her scrunch her nose or the tear that squeezes from one eye.

Then the Master of Ceremonies steps back, giving her a wide berth, even with his shimmering shield in place. Naomi looks up again, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she waits for something to happen.

It does.

Her chin rises as she takes a breath and a sudden calmness that’s almost scary in itself takes her eyes. I hold my breath. Not until my lungs burn do I realize I need to let it go. Then the carafe of water on Naomi’s table of elements begins to shake, sloshing water over the sides. The liquid multiplies until it spills over the edges, pouring over the side of the table, and crashing in giant waves against the sides of the shield. 

It turns back on itself in half a dozen errant waves, colliding backwards before crashing again on the opposite side of the shield. But the water never touches Naomi. She holds her arms out and the water follows her direction as she moves like a conductor of an orchestra only she can see and hear.

The water grows until it fills almost the dome of her entire staging area, and she sends it swirling around and around—a whirlpool that sweeps away the other elements, the dirt and rocks, the wood and fire. All of it obliterated by the force of the water.

When she’s done with her display, Naomi drops her hands and in an instant, the water stops moving. There’s not even a residual slosh. It just…stops. At her command, it falls to the ground, then drains into itself until it’s back to its original volume, contained neatly in the glass carafe she’s managed to place at her feet, splintered remains of the other elements scattered across the stage floor around her.

She folds her hands on her lap and kneels on the floor behind the carafe of water. Then she bursts into tears and throws her palms to her eyes as the Council audience roars with approval. She wipes her eyes with her palms and offers me a smile.

Water. This is good. I can work with water. A lot can be done with water. Water is a good power to gain. Water is life.