The Unspoken: Book One in the Keres Trilogy (22 page)

“
See you in the morning, Keres,
”
he says to me before leaving our residence block.

Left alone to manage PG3456
’
s wounds, I refill the water flasks and cut up the bandages. After two hours, I change everyone
’
s dressings again and divide up the remaining bandages and scoop out ointment into even clumps and place one set in each bathroom. Power down is in a few minutes and they will have to change their own through the night. I set the alarm on my clock for midnight and tell them I
’
ll call them through the tubing network in the vents.

“
How are we going to change Doe
’
s?
”
Merit asks.

I look at my instructions from Zink, surely he had thought about this.
“
Zink says she will be fine until breakfast, he used a different salve on her that needs to cure overnight. I
’
m just supposed to change her in the morning,
”
I say, breathing a sigh of relief. I suppose Merit could have squeezed through the vents like he did when we were in Solace, but I can
’
t imagine him getting very far, as weak as he is. He was already underfed and the day without food and water has taken a serious toll on him.

We don
’
t form our goodnight line when the warning tone sounds. It doesn
’
t feel right without Doe. Instead we just go to our rooms and try to sleep until the first alarm goes off. I don
’
t even hear The Mother coming by to lock our doors. Waking every two hours as directed, checking on each other through the vents, changing bandages, applying the torridly painful ointment, and trying to sleep in-between makes for a restless night. Once, I hear Frehn screaming and Wex banging on the wall to wake him up. They talk to each other for a long time through the vents but I can
’
t tell what they are saying. Only the mingled tones of their deep voices reverberating through the vents reach me.

The morning takes a long time to come. When The Mother finally comes to unlock my door, it is just before dawn. I slip out of my room and across to Doe
’
s. She
’
s still sleeping, but the creases of stress and worry between her eyes have smoothed out. I check her bandages. She had bled through them in the night. I carefully begin to change them when she wakes, eyes fluttering.

“
Oh, hello,
”
she says.

“
Hi,
”
I say back.

“
They don
’
t hurt like yesterday.
”

“
That
’
s good, Zink worked hard to be sure they got better fast.
”

“
I like him.
”

“
So do I.
”

She
’
s quiet while I reapply the salve and rewrap the bandage.

“
Think you can stand?
”

“
Oh, yes, I
’
m fine now. I
’
ll be glad to get some breakfast though.
”

I leave her to get dressed and wait in the common room. Our ornaments of Service are lined up on the mantel as usual. The Mothers have straightened the common room, removing the snipped ends of gauze and cleaned the place where I wiped ointment off my hand and onto the sofa. I
’
m aching to get to the hall and the Warren, to get away from anything The Mothers can touch.

PG3456 appears in the canteen as if nothing happened the day before. Doe
’
s wrapped wrists aren
’
t visible under her long sleeves. We eat and talk and leave for morning Service hours, carefully presenting a face of angelic repentance.

Frehn walks north through Chelon with me and when we part ways he rests his hand on my neck, giving it a squeeze.
“
We will be fine, Keres. Focus on what
’
s in front of you.
”

On the elevator, I drag my thumb over the tree tattoo behind my ear. In my vision I pick up a crystal box with pewter corners off the round table and look inside. There is a rope made of different colors of silken cord. Five different knots are tied along its length. It
’
s resting on a cushion of soft velvet. Looking around, I spot a robust looking trunk with iron bands and a series of complicated locks. I place the glass box inside the trunk and lock it safely as the elevator doors open. I step out of my vision and onto the hall.

I change into my suit and run through my training as if Abbot is there barking commands. The sweat pours off me in buckets as I surge through the exercises. I am focused on the muscle movements, thinking carefully about what each one looks like when I move it.

“
Looks like you finally gained a little control.
”

I drop the barbell with a loud crash. It
’
s disconcerting how Abbot can come and go without a sound.

“
I have purpose now,
”
I say.

“
Don
’
t we all,
”
Abbot returns with a shot of venom.
“
Dry off, we have work to do.
”

I wash my face in the bathroom on the wardrobe wall. The tattoos across Abbot
’
s forehead, the rough line of coarse stubble around his jaw, and his steely eyes all seem to stare through me as I walk back across the den to the mats.

“
Let
’
s work on harnessing Commotio.
”
I stare at him blankly.
“
The movement group,
”
he explains.
“
Retention isn
’
t your thing is it? You must have read about Commotio four times in the first two days.
”

“
It
’
s been a rough first week.
”

“
Always an excuse,
”
he says dismissively.
“
Watch me.
”
Abbot traces the ink design on his forearm with the thumb-out fist, and the pattern glows and morphs into the folded wing I saw two days ago. He gently opens his fingers, and a small whirling wind spins on his palm.
“
I thought it would be better to start with envisioning your out-of-control tornado as something small and manageable rather than trying to move targets again.
”
He tosses the tiny whirlwind in the air and it fades instantly.

After a few tries, a broken lamp, a shattered model of the human heart, and splitting one of the overstuffed chairs down its middle, I manage it. Gazing at the miniature version of destruction pirouetting wildly around my hand, I feel totally in control for the first time in my life.

Over the next few weeks Abbot puts me through a punishing workout regime each morning. After lunch I spend the hours in the Magus Library or watching Marum brew inks. I work towards a thorough knowledge of the tattoos I already have, their inks and their abilities. Abbot is anxious that I move forward quickly but I still struggle with controlling the movement tattoo. While I am unfailingly able to throw the magus, it
’
s hit or miss in application. Zink has started coming by my den half an hour before the lights flicker signaling dinner, just so he can repair the results of my study.

After weeks of exhausting practice, tears, and hair pulling, Abbot and I finally have a breakthrough.
“
Visualizing the desired result clearly doesn
’
t work for you. You naturally jump from one thought to another without recognizing it. When you force yourself to concentrate on one thing, it becomes overly intense. All the rage and emotion you have built up inside is channeled to that one thought and things explode. You won
’
t be able to use the mind-clearing tattoo each time you need to throw a magus. Your thoughts are getting tangled, tied up together, tripping over themselves in that rat
’
s nest of a brain you have,
”
Abbot tells me.
“
Let
’
s try not concentrating on the intentional thought. Just for the fun of it. Skip the visualization part and just throw it.
”

So I look at the target, trace the wings tattoo, and fling out my hand, not forcing myself to think of a desired result. And it works. The target slides neatly to the left several inches.
“
Again,
”
grunts Abbot. I repeat the process, and while I initially picture the target moving to the left, I don
’
t force my mind to focus on it. I let my thoughts travel from one thing to the next. The target moves perfectly again. And again.

With my wings tattoo, I move every item in my den from the sofa to the tiny brass whirring instrument that sits on the bookshelf without disturbing so much as a dust cloud. Abbot huffs in mingled disgust and elation,
“
I should have seen this from the start. Being able to throw on the first day should have told me you would be long past having to use supreme concentration to control the result. Tomorrow morning we are skipping strength training. Go to the ink room and have Marum teach you how to brew ink for the Demoror group. We will use what you make for your next tattoo.
”
He ambles out of my den. I can tell by the way he holds his head and the angle of his shoulders that he
’
s proud of me. Well, if I were being honest, he
’
s probably more proud of himself for finding the solution than my execution of it.

When I ride up the elevator with Zink, we clear our minds in unison with the Dominato tattoos behind our ears, leaving the hall and the Warren in the car as we surface. I feel so light, I take off running with Zink when the elevator opens. He looks over at me while I sprint by his side and laughs,
“
If you are gonna run, then RUN!
”
he yells. He increases his speed through the streets, nearly slamming into a knot of miners coming from the other side as we fly down the hill. Pulling up short, we lose our balance and fall backwards, trying to avoid a collision. Laughing, trying to pick ourselves and our packs up off the ground, unable to catch our breath, we give up entirely and roll around in the dirt in complete bliss. Frehn finds us that way a few minutes later and pulls us to our feet.