Scarecrow

The tide queen kept singing everyone home every night, and on the ninth night someone sang back.

Not loud. Ruan said it was the faintest thing he’d ever heard on the thread. Fainter than the voice in its quiet places. Fainter than the far queen. Three hundred and eighty small voices, a very long way up, very tired, with the note on them. And under the note, so faint you’d miss it if you weren’t listening for it with your whole life, the brood-word for home.

Not all three hundred and eighty. Ruan couldn’t count them. He said it was like hearing rain on a roof three valleys away and trying to count the drops.

But some.

”Where?” said Okafor.

Ruan put his hand flat on Garnet’s map. On the new sheet. On the red line going out past the edge of where anyone had been.

And then further. Past the edge of the new sheet. Onto the wood of the table.

”There,” he said.

Garnet went to look.

Not alone. Not in an interceptor. On the Meridian, which Ruan flies now as if it were a part of him, with Ilka Marrow on the relay and Orbital Command round her like a crew round a mast. Three days up the thread. Very quiet. Dark the whole way, Garnet said. Not black. Just dark. The kind of dark that’s only empty because nobody’s been there.

She drew all of it. Every day. And sent it back through Dot.

On the fourth day she sent one drawing and didn’t write anything under it.

Dot put it on the map room wall.

A world.

Not green. Not grey. Red. A dull, rusted red, like an old wound, going all the way round. With no sea. With mountains like broken teeth. And on the mountains, built into them, out of them, something very big and very old and made of Sorn metal. Walls. Towers. Yards. Holds. All the way along the ridges, as far as Garnet’s pencil went.

And in the yards, people.

Thousands of them. In rows. Very straight.

Not white. Not sung. Standing in rows because they’d been taught to stand in rows. With weapons.

Under the drawing, the next morning, in Garnet’s neat hand:

Ruan calls it the Barrow. Ilka says the houses don’t have a name for it; it’s a number. Dot says it’s where the tithe goes first. Before the sorting. Before seven-three-K. The children from the tithe worlds come here and are held in the deep holds, under the mountains, and then go on.

The people in the yards aren’t Sorn.

Ilka’s been listening to them. They talk to each other. At night. In the rows. Very quietly.

They’re guards. They guard the holds. Ilka says they hate it.

They were called the Vaeli.

Dot worked it out in two days, from what Ilka sent back. A people from a world a long way along a line nobody on Avalon had drawn yet. Taken a very long time ago. Longer than the Accord. Longer than Earth’s tithe. The houses had put silver in them, the first generation, and kept putting it in, every generation since, and it had made them into what the houses wanted.

Fighters.

Every Vaeli had something the silver gave them. Ilka said she could hear it in them, on the relay; like listening to an orchestra where every instrument’s been tuned to a different war. One could make his skin turn a blade. One could throw herself forty feet. One could hear a heartbeat through a wall. One could make the air in front of him hard as a door.

And the houses kept them on the Barrow, in the yards, guarding the holds where the tithe children slept.

”Why do they stay?” said Callum.

He was on the porch. For the first time since the reef. With his left hand in his lap. Grey from the base of the thumb to the fingertips now; Maura had brought it back that far. He could move the thumb. Nothing else yet.

”Ilka says,” said Dot. Very quietly. ”They have a place called the Cradle. On the highest ridge. A citadel. Sealed.” She paused. ”Their children are in it. All of them. Every Vaeli child born on the Barrow is taken to the Cradle at birth and kept there. The guards see them once a year. Through glass.”

Nobody on the porch said anything.

”If a guard fails,” said Dot, ”a child in the Cradle is corrected.”

Okafor sat in the map room all night.

I know because I sat with her. Not saying anything. She didn’t want anyone to say anything. She sat at the end of the long table with the slate in front of her and Garnet’s drawing on the wall and her hands flat on the wood, and she didn’t write anything for a very long time.

Toward dawn she said: ”It’s a trap.”

”Yes,” I said.

”Not for us. They don’t know we’re coming.” She looked at the drawing. ”It’s a trap for them. For the Vaeli. The houses built it for them. A people who could fight anyone, and they made it so they can’t fight anyone but us.” She was quiet for a while. ”If we go in, the Vaeli will fight us. All of them. Because if they don’t, the Cradle.”

”Then we go to the Cradle first.”

”Yes,” said Okafor. ”And while we’re going to the Cradle, ten thousand people who’ve been made into weapons for longer than the Accord will be trying to stop us. Because they don’t know why we’re there. And they’ve been told, every day of their lives, that anyone coming up those ridges is coming for the Cradle.” She looked at me. ”We will have to fight them. Some of them. Before they understand.”

”I know.”

”Some of them will die. Because they’re trying to save their children from us.” She put her hand on the slate. ”I’ve never hated the houses more than I hate them right now.”

She wrote the slate at dawn.

Lucas Dask. The Cradle.

Maris Okafor. The yards.

Risa Calder, Wing Commander. Sixteen interceptors. Not to fire on the yards. On the towers only.

The Mom Squad. The holds. Under the mountains. For the Lir children.

Holt. Two hundred. With the Mom Squad.

Halloway. The Harness. Genny.

Brock Haddon. With me.

”Me?” said Brock.

At the end of the long table. With his hands in his pockets.

”You,” said Okafor. ”The Vaeli have been taught that anyone coming up the ridges is coming for the Cradle. I want the first person they see coming up the ridges to be a young man who can turn to iron and doesn’t.” She looked at him. ”You let it go. On the platform. So the Lir would see you chose to.” She put her hand on the slate. ”I’d like you to do that again. In front of ten thousand people who’ve been made to fight. And I’d like you to be very good at standing still while they decide what they’re looking at.”

Brock didn’t say anything for a long time.

”They’ll hit me,” he said.

”Probably,” said Okafor.

”Hard.”

”Very.”

Brock took his hands out of his pockets.

”All right,” he said. ”I’m good at standing in rivers.”

Callum wanted to go.

Of course he did. He stood up on the porch when Risa read out the wing, all sixteen, and his name wasn’t on it, and Rowan’s was.

”Sit down,” said Risa.

”I can fly with one hand.”

”You can fly with one thumb,” said Risa. ”And you’ll fly with both hands again. Maura says. And then you’ll be in the wing.” She didn’t look at him. ”Not this time.”

Rowan looked at his brother.

”I’ve never flown without you,” he said.

”I know,” said Callum.

”I don’t know how.”

”Yes, you do,” said Callum. ”You go first. You always go first. I just come after.” He sat down. With his grey hand in his lap. ”Go first. I’ll be on the channel. Last.”

Nan Vey ironed Rowan’s jacket that night. And then, because she didn’t have anything else to iron, Brock’s coat. And then Holt’s, because he came up the hill to see Okafor and stood still too long in the kitchen.

Marian Haddon packed Brock’s bag.

She’d never done it before. Dennis said. Not once. Not for the barracks. Not for the shallow seas. She said he was grown and could pack his own bag. But that night she came to the third-wave houses with Clare and a basket and packed it anyway. Socks. A clean shirt. A tin of Maura’s biscuits. And at the top, under the flap, a small paper packet.

”Beans,” she said. ”The same as the tower.”

”Mum, it’s a fortress,” said Brock. ”It’s made of metal. On a mountain. There won’t be anywhere to plant them.”

”There’s always somewhere,” said Marian. ”You found a crack in a tower in the sea.” She closed the bag. ”Find a crack.”

We went up the thread on the third day.

The Harness. The Steady. Sixteen interceptors. Two hundred of Holt’s. Okafor and me and Brock on the Harness’s forward ramp, and Mother and Maura and Ingrid behind us, and Genny at the medical bay doors with volume twelve shoved into the back of her coat.

And the Meridian waiting for us at the top. Dark. Quiet. With Garnet at its window with her drawing board.

Garnet had drawn us a way in.

The Barrow’s ridges went round the world like the teeth of a jaw. The yards were on the low ridges. The holds were under the mountains. And the Cradle was on the highest ridge of all, at the very top, sealed, with nothing round it. No yards. No guards. Because the guards weren’t allowed near it.

The houses keep the correctors there, Garnet had written under the drawing. Not the Vaeli. Ilka counted. Sixty. In the Cradle. With the children.

If we go to the yards first, they’ll know. And sixty correctors will start.

If Lucas goes to the Cradle first, the Vaeli in the yards won’t know why. And they’ll come up the ridge.

Okafor had looked at that for a long time.

”Both,” she’d said. ”At once.”

So we went at once.

I scattered.

Not up the thread. Just across. From the Harness, hanging in the dark over the red world, down. To the highest ridge. To the Cradle. A mile. I’ve done a mile. I’ve done more, since the queens gave me more. I came apart on the Harness’s ramp and felt every atom of myself go out like a breath and come together again on the outside wall of the Cradle, in the dull red light, on the Sorn metal.

The metal knew me.

I felt it know me. The way the Hands’ metal knew me when I folded them. And I put my hands flat on it and asked it to let me in.

It did.

I’m not going to write all of what was in the Cradle.

I’ll write that it was white inside. Like the rooms at seven-three-K. And quiet. And that there were children in it. Vaeli. In rows. Not sung. Not like the tithe children. Awake. Because the guards saw them once a year through glass, and the houses wanted them to see their parents’ faces through the glass, and remember them.

Four thousand children.

And sixty correctors.

They knew I was there the moment I came through the wall.

They didn’t come for me.

That was the first thing. They didn’t come for me. They went for the children.

I should have known they would. Holt closed the ramps on thirty-one of his own people. The houses take a forest queen’s young as shields. They break one holding queen a day. They’d built the Cradle for exactly this. If anyone came, start.

The first corrector was in the first hall. With a row of small children in front of it. And its hand up.

I felt the black come out of it.

I felt it go into the first row.

I’ve said before I’d never been so angry as on the reef.

That was wrong. I was wrong.

I didn’t scatter. I didn’t fold anything. I didn’t ask.

I reached out with everything the queens had given me, every atom I could feel, and I found the burned-dead silver at the throat of every corrector in the Cradle, all sixty of them, every one, in every hall, at once. And I took it apart.

Not slowly. Not the way Okafor tore the carrier. All at once.

All sixty of them fell down.

It took less than a second.

It was still too long.

The first row in the first hall. Twenty-three children. Small. The black had gone into them before I found it, and I couldn’t take it out, because by then it wasn’t the corrector’s any more. It was theirs. Taught empty.

I tried.

I knelt on the white floor of the first hall of the Cradle with the first of them in my arms and I tried until the light changed.

Maura told me afterward that some things can’t come back if they’re taught empty when they’re very small. That the black has nothing to push against. That it isn’t anyone’s fault. Not even the houses’, in the way that matters; the houses didn’t care whose fault anything was.

I’ve thought about that a great deal.

I don’t believe it.

But I’ve written their names down. Genny helped. The Vaeli told her every one, afterward. All twenty-three. Genny wrote them in volume twelve with Father’s pen and then she wrote them again in volume thirteen, which she started that night, because she said volume twelve wasn’t big enough.

I’ll write the rest the way Garnet drew it. Because she was there for this part. At the window of the Meridian. With the whole Barrow below her.

One.

The yards. Ten thousand Vaeli. Turning. All of them at once. Toward the high ridge.

They felt it. Ilka said. When the correctors fell. Every Vaeli on the Barrow has a piece of the same silver. They felt the Cradle go quiet.

They thought the children were dead.

Two.

The ridge. The road up it. Steep. Metal. With ten thousand people running up it toward the Cradle. Very fast. Faster than people should run. Some of them throwing themselves forty feet at a time.

And on the road, halfway up, between the yards and the Cradle, one person.

Standing still.

That was Brock.

Okafor had put him down there. Off the Harness’s ramp, onto the ridge road, with nothing between him and the yards. While she went down to the yards herself, to the towers at the yard gates where the houses’ engines were, with her hand up, and made every one of them so heavy it went down through the ridge.

And Brock stood on the road. And watched ten thousand people come up it.

And let the iron go.

Three.

Brock. On the road. Not iron. A young man in a coat Nan Vey ironed. With his hands at his sides.

And the first of them reaching him.

A girl. Ilka says. She was first because she’s always first. She went past the others on the road like they were standing still. Because they were. To her.

Her name was Saska.

She told him later. Not then. Then she didn’t tell him anything. She came up the road ahead of ten thousand people and hit him.

I’ve seen people hit Brock. I’ve seen correctors hit him on the Hathri world. I’ve seen a Hand’s arm come down on him in the hollows. Brock goes iron and takes it and stays where he is. It’s what he does. It’s what he’s good at.

He didn’t go iron.

He’d promised Okafor.

So Saska hit him in the chest, and he went down the ridge road on his back for twenty feet, and got up. And she was there before he’d finished getting up. And hit him again.

He got up again.

”I’m not here for the Cradle,” he said.

She hit him.

He got up.

”We’re here for the children,” he said. ”Yours. And the Lir ones. In the holds. That’s all.”

She hit him again. And he went down, and he didn’t get up as fast that time, and the ten thousand were on the road behind her now, slowing, watching, because one of their own was fighting someone who wouldn’t fight back.

Brock told me what it was like. Afterward. On the porch. When he could talk about it.

”She knew where I was going to be,” he said. ”Before I was. Every time. I’d start to get up and she’d be there. Where my head was going to be. Not where it was.” He turned his cup. ”I’ve never been hit by someone who was already there.”

That’s her gift. The silver’s. The Vaeli call it the half-step. She sees a heartbeat ahead. Where everything is about to be. Every blade. Every hand. Every fall. She’s been fighting since she was old enough to stand, Teshka said later, because on the Barrow the houses train the guards from the day they’re taken out of the Cradle, and Saska was the best of her year, and the best of the year before, and the year before that.

She’s nineteen.

She’s never lost.

Brock got up a fifth time.

Slower. Bleeding from the mouth. With his coat torn.

And Saska stopped.

Not because he’d said anything. Because of what she saw. A heartbeat ahead. Where he was about to be.

”You’re going to stand there,” she said. In her language. Dot heard it. Dot put it into all of us. ”You’re going to stand there again.”

”Yes,” said Brock.

”Why don’t you fight?”

”Because you’re not the one I came to fight,” said Brock. ”And you’d win anyway.” He wiped his mouth. ”I’m Brock. My mother packed me beans.”

That was when the Cradle opened.

I opened it. From the inside. All the walls. All at once. The way I opened the white rooms on seven-three-K. Not broken. Asked. Every wall of the Cradle going soft and opening outward like petals, so that the highest ridge of the Barrow was suddenly a white flower in the red light with four thousand children standing in the middle of it.

Alive.

All but twenty-three.

Four.

The ridge road. Ten thousand Vaeli. Stopped. Looking up at the Cradle.

At the children. Who were looking down at them. Through nothing. No glass.

Ilka says there wasn’t a sound on the whole Barrow for a long time.

Then one of the children said something. Very small. Dot says it was a name.

And the woman nearest Brock on the road said it back.

They went up the ridge.

All ten thousand. Past Brock. Past Saska. Not running. Walking. Slowly. The way you walk toward something you’ve only seen through glass.

Saska didn’t go.

She stood on the road beside Brock, very still, and looked up at the Cradle. And then at him.

”My brother,” she said. ”Is in there.”

”Then go,” said Brock.

She didn’t move.

”You let me hit you,” she said. ”Five times.”

”Four. I fell over by myself once.”

Saska looked at him for a long time.

Then she went up the ridge. Fast. A heartbeat ahead of everything.

The holds were worse.

Mother told me. Afterward. Not much. She doesn’t tell much.

There were correctors in the holds too. Not sixty. Twelve. The houses hadn’t thought anyone would get to the holds. And the Mom Squad and Holt’s two hundred went down into the dark under the mountains and found them.

Ingrid hushed the note. Maura warmed what she could. And Mother walked in front. Into the dark. With her hands up. With every corrector in the holds lifted off its feet and held against the ceiling by the strength of her mind, the way she holds anything she decides isn’t going to fall.

Holt’s people did the rest.

Three hundred and eleven Lir children. In the deep holds. Asleep, with the note on them. Still listening for the tide queen.

Sixty-nine more had been there. And weren’t. Gone on, a week before. To the sorting. Further up. Where Garnet’s paper hadn’t gone yet.

Mother sat on the floor of the hold for a while, Maura said. With her hands in her lap. Not saying anything.

Then she got up and carried children.

The Barrow fell by evening.

Not because we took it. Because the Vaeli did.

When they had their children out of the Cradle, and down the ridge, and into the arms of people who’d only seen them through glass, the Vaeli went back to the yards. Ten thousand of them. And then into the towers that Okafor hadn’t sunk yet. And the deep halls. And the engine rooms, and the houses’ signal masts, and every place on the Barrow where something of the houses was still standing.

And took it apart.

With their hands. With the gifts the silver gave them to fight for the houses. Very carefully. All night.

Okafor stood in the yards and watched them do it.

”I’ve seen soldiers before,” she said to me. Near dawn. With her arms folded. ”I’ve been soldiers before.” She watched a Vaeli man make the air in front of him hard as a door and put it through a signal mast. ”I’ve never seen anything like that.”

Their captain came to the Harness at dawn.

Teshka. Old. Tall. Grey-haired, with a long scar down the side of her neck and the half-step in her eyes, the same as Saska’s; Saska’s grandmother, it turned out. Near-human, the Vaeli. Close enough that you’d pass one on the long road and not look twice, except that they’re a little too tall, and their eyes are a little too large and too dark, and at the hollow of every throat, where the houses put it in the first generation, a small mark of silver like a seed.

She came up the ramp. And stopped in front of Okafor. And knelt.

”Get up,” said Okafor.

Teshka got up.

”We’ve guarded the holds,” she said. Dot put it in all of us. ”For eleven generations. We’ve stood in the yards and let them carry other people’s children past us into the dark. Every tithe. Every year.” She looked at Okafor. ”We did it so ours would live.”

”I know,” said Okafor.

”Twenty-three of ours didn’t.”

”I know.”

Teshka looked at her for a long time.

”Your boy,” she said. ”On the road. He let my granddaughter hit him five times.”

”Four,” said Okafor. ”He fell over once.”

Something happened at the corner of Teshka’s mouth.

”We have nowhere to go,” she said. ”Our world is eleven generations away. We don’t know if it’s there. We don’t know if our queen is.” She put her hand on the silver at her throat. ”We know how to fight. That’s what they made us for. That’s all we know how to do.”

”That isn’t all you know how to do,” said Okafor. ”You walked up a ridge to your children. I saw it.” She put out her hand. ”But if you want to fight, I know where.”

Teshka looked at Okafor’s hand.

Then she took it.

They came home with us.

All of them. Ten thousand and six hundred Vaeli, and four thousand children from the Cradle, and three hundred and eleven Lir, who went to the shallow seas the next week, where the tide queen sang them up out of the Steady’s hold and three hundred and eleven boats were waiting.

It took nine crossings.

I built for the Vaeli that month.

They didn’t want houses. Not at first. Teshka said they’d never had houses. They’d had yards and barracks and the Cradle. So I built them a long stone hall on the north plain, near the interceptor field, with a roof that opened to the sky. And yards. Real ones. Open. Grass. For training. And round the hall, little by little, as they asked for them, houses. One family at a time. Each one built with them standing beside me telling me where the door should go.

Miss Pell came and watched. And nodded. And didn’t say anything, which from her is very high praise.

The children from the Cradle wouldn’t go inside anything with white walls. Teshka didn’t have to tell me. I made every wall in the Vaeli houses out of the red stone from the cliffs above the seventh lake. And put windows in all of them. Big ones. No glass in the children’s rooms. Shutters. That they could open themselves.

And they joined.

Not all of them. Teshka said that wasn’t the point; the point was that it was theirs to decide now. But many. More than Okafor had ever had come to her at once.

Two thousand on the first day. Standing in rows on the north plain in front of the long hall, very straight, because they’d been taught to stand in rows and hadn’t yet learned they didn’t have to. Okafor walked down the rows. Slowly. Looking at every face.

At the end she stopped.

”Stand however you like,” she said.

Nobody moved.

”I mean it,” said Okafor. ”You stood in rows for the houses. You don’t stand in rows for me. Stand however you’d stand if nobody was looking.”

It took a while.

Then, one at a time, they started to move. Not much. A shift of weight. Someone folding their arms. Someone putting a hand on the shoulder of the person beside them. A tall boy at the back sitting down on the grass.

Okafor looked at them for a long time.

”Good,” she said. ”Now we can start.”

Holt took the first five hundred.

He came down off the barracks steps with his sleeves rolled up and looked at them and said something very rude about the state of his own people in comparison, and the Vaeli didn’t laugh, because they’d never been allowed to laugh at an officer. And then Holt’s own people did. And then the Vaeli did.

Risa took the ones who could throw themselves forty feet.

”They don’t need interceptors,” she said. On the porch. With her hair on end. ”They need wings. Keir’s building them.” She put her head in her hands. ”I’m going to have a wing that doesn’t need ships. Do you know how much paperwork that is?”

”Okafor does the paperwork,” I said.

”I do the paperwork,” said Risa. ”Okafor reads the paperwork. And sends it back. With notes.” She looked at me through her fingers. ”Very good, Wing Commander. Two thousand Vaeli with no ships. Please explain how they will land.”

”How will they land?”

”I don’t know,” said Risa. ”They just do. Saska showed me. She came down off the barracks roof onto the field like a cat. A heartbeat ahead of the ground.”

Saska was everywhere that month.

That’s how Genny put it. She’s everywhere Brock is.

It started on the first morning back.

Brock went down to the long ward at dawn, the way he does, to read to the trays before the Harness rotation. With his face still bruised purple down one side. With a book about Earth’s birds. And when he came in, Saska was sitting on the floor by Bell’s tray.

Cross-legged. With her back very straight. In the plain grey clothes the Vaeli had worn on the Barrow, because nobody had given her anything else yet.

Looking at the trays.

Brock stopped in the doorway.

She didn’t look round. She didn’t need to. She’d known he was going to be in the doorway a heartbeat before he was.

”They hum,” she said. Dot had given her our language by then; Dot gives everyone our language now, in the first week, the way you’d give someone a coat. ”Your sister says. The one who asks.”

”Genny,” said Brock. ”She’s not my sister.”

”The one who asks said they hum when you read to them.” Saska looked at him then. ”I wanted to hear.”

Brock looked at her for a long time.

Then he came in. And sat down on the floor. Across from her. With his back to the wall.

And opened the book about Earth’s birds. And read. Badly. Stopping at the long words.

Bell’s tray hummed.

Saska listened to it for an hour without moving.

She came back the next morning.

And the next.

And on the fourth morning, when Brock stopped at a long word he couldn’t sound out — ptarmigan — Saska leaned over and looked at the page, and said it. Perfectly. Because she’d known, a heartbeat ahead, which word he was going to stop on, and she’d been practising.

Bell hummed louder than Genny had ever heard her.

Genny wrote it down.

S. (Vaeli) said ptarmigan. Bell liked it. Brock went red.

Then the field.

Saska trained at dawn with the Vaeli on the north plain. Every morning. Before the long ward. And on the sixth day, Brock came down to the field. With his hands in his pockets. And stood at the edge.

”Teach me,” he said.

Saska looked at him. ”You can’t fight.”

”I can stand.”

”Standing isn’t fighting.”

”It is if nobody can knock you down,” said Brock.

Saska considered this. A heartbeat ahead.

”I knocked you down four times,” she said.

”Without the iron.”

Saska looked at him for a long time.

”Show me,” she said.

Garnet drew it. Of course she did. She was on the upturned crate at the edge of the interceptor field with Rowan and the dog, and the whole of Risa’s morning rotation stopped on the field to watch.

One. Brock. Iron. From the edges in. Grey to the shoulders.

Two. Saska. Coming at him. A heartbeat ahead.

Three. Saska. On the grass. On her back. Looking up at the sky.

She hit him in the chest, Garnet wrote. And he didn’t move. At all. And she bounced.

Saska got up.

She looked at Brock. Iron. Standing exactly where he’d been. Not even breathing hard.

”Again,” she said.

She hit him eleven more times that morning.

He didn’t move once.

And on the twelfth time, he moved. Just a little. Just to the side. And she went past him, and he put out one iron hand, very gently, and caught her arm before she hit the grass.

She looked up at him.

”I didn’t see that,” she said. ”I didn’t see you do that.”

”I didn’t know I was going to,” said Brock. ”Until I did.”

Saska looked at him for a long time. A heartbeat ahead. And a long time after that.

”Nobody’s ever done anything I didn’t see,” she said.

After that it was every morning.

The field at dawn. The long ward after. Saska trying to teach Brock to see where things were going to be, which he couldn’t; Brock trying to teach Saska to stand still and let things happen, which she couldn’t either. They were both very bad at it. Garnet drew it every day. Rowan kept score. Saska had never lost to anyone in her life, and she still didn’t lose to Brock, not once, not ever. But she never knocked him down either.

Teshka came and watched on the ninth morning.

Saska’s grandmother. With her arms folded. With the scar down her neck.

She watched for a long time.

”In eleven generations,” she said to Okafor, who’d come to watch too, ”no Vaeli has ever fought something she couldn’t move.”

”How’s she taking it?” said Okafor.

Teshka watched her granddaughter bounce off Brock Haddon for the fortieth time and get up laughing.

”She’s never laughed while fighting,” said Teshka. ”Not once. Not since she was taken out of the Cradle.” She unfolded her arms. ”I’d like to meet his mother.”

She met his mother.

On the twelfth day. At supper. In the third-wave houses. Marian Haddon cooked; Clare set the table; Dennis stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets the way Brock does and didn’t know what to say to a seven-foot warrior grandmother with a scar down her neck.

Marian did.

”Do you garden?” she said.

Teshka looked at her.

”We were never allowed to grow anything,” she said. ”On the Barrow.”

”Well,” said Marian. ”You’re not on the Barrow.” She put a plate in front of her. ”Brock says you’ve got a big hall on the north plain with a roof that opens. That’s a lot of light. I’ve got beans that came up in a tower in the sea. I’ll bring you some.”

Teshka looked at the plate. And at Marian. For a long time.

”Thank you,” she said.

Saska, across the table, looked at Brock.

Brock was looking at his plate. And very red.

”Your mother,” said Saska. Afterward. Walking back down the long road in the dark. ”She gave me beans.”

”She gives everyone beans.”

”I’ve never been given anything,” said Saska. ”Not a thing. On the Barrow the houses gave us silver and orders.” She was quiet for a while. ”Your mother gave me beans. And Maura gave me bread. And the old woman with the iron ironed my training wraps, and I didn’t ask her to.”

”Nan Vey.”

”Nan Vey.” Saska tried it out. ”Everyone here gives things. Without asking.” She looked at him. ”Why?”

Brock thought about it for a long time.

”Because somebody gave it to them,” he said. ”Once. When they didn’t have anything either.” He put his hands in his pockets. ”Genny gave me soup. In the hollow. When I’d been holding myself together for a year and a half and didn’t know anyone could tell.”

Saska didn’t say anything.

They walked.

At the bottom of the long road, at the turn to the Vaeli hall, she stopped.

”I knew you were going to say that,” she said. ”About the soup. A heartbeat before you did.”

”Did you?”

”Yes.” She looked at him. ”I wanted to hear you say it anyway.”

”Is he—” said Mother. At the kitchen table. With her cup. Very carefully.

”Yes,” said Genny. Without looking up from volume thirteen. ”This time, yes.”

”I didn’t finish.”

”You were going to ask if he’s courting her,” said Genny. ”He doesn’t know he is. She does. She knew before him. That’s her whole thing.” She turned a page. ”Garnet’s drawn them forty-one times. Rowan’s keeping score. Saska’s winning.”

”Winning what?”

”Everything,” said Genny. ”Except knocking him down.” She wrote something. ”He planted his mother’s beans in a crack in the wall of the Vaeli hall. Without asking. Saska found it the next morning. She stood there looking at it for an hour.” She looked up. ”She doesn’t stand still. Ever. Teshka says. She stood still for an hour looking at Brock’s beans.”

Mother put down her cup.

”Oh,” she said.

”Yes,” said Genny. ”Oh.”

And Callum’s hand.

I’ll write that too. Because it belongs here.

On the twentieth day, at the long ward, with Maura’s hands on it every evening and the trays humming and Bell humming loudest, his first finger moved.

He was watching Brock and Saska. On the floor across from Bell’s tray. Brock reading. Saska saying the long words before he got to them.

And Callum laughed. Last. The way he does.

And his first finger moved.

Genny wrote it down twice.

I said it on the porch that night.

In order. To everyone. Which is a very long order now. It goes all the way down the rail and onto the steps and off the end of the porch onto the grass, where Teshka sits with Ingrid and Konrad because there aren’t enough chairs.

When I got to Brock, at the end of the rail, Saska was beside him.

I said it to both of them.

Saska looked at me. A heartbeat ahead.

”You were going to say that,” she said.

”Yes.”

”I knew,” she said. ”I wanted to hear it anyway.”

Brock, beside her, said nothing at all. He just went very slightly iron at the edges, the way he does when he’s holding something he doesn’t want to drop.

Days 3731–3780. Half-Step.

Ruan heard the Lir children answer; Garnet found the Barrow, a red world where the Vaeli, given silver by the houses for eleven generations to fight, guard the tithe holds, their own children sealed in the Cradle as hostage. Both at once. I went into the Cradle; the correctors went for the children; I took all sixty apart in less than a second and it was too long: twenty-three Vaeli children. Brock stood on the ridge road without the iron while Saska, who sees a heartbeat ahead, knocked him down four times. The Cradle opened. 4,000 children alive. The Mom Squad got 311 Lir from the holds; 69 had gone on. The Vaeli took the Barrow apart themselves. Teshka took Okafor’s hand. 10,600 came home; thousands joined. Saska bounces off Brock every morning. Marian gave her beans. Callum’s finger moved.