Tracked (26 page)

After dinner, I leave bear in the infirmary. He doesn't
like it when I hang around during his physical therapy sessions, while he hobbles back and forth and builds up his strength. Maybe he can't chase Hal and Mary off, but I'll let him be. I can give him that much.

It's the quiet hour. The breeze carries idle chatter—the sounds of soldiers gathered around tables, and children being tucked into their beds with stories and songs and prayers. I cut through the eastern edge of the camp, past the barracks and the armory. Hank is on evening watch. He acknowledges me with a nod and a fist over his heart. We trade greetings. Bidram arras noc.

The night wind gusts and sings, and I turn up my collar, grateful for the warmth of the uniform. My coat, my shirt, my cap. It's all army surplus, the no-nonsense gear the Cyanese hand out to refugees. It's all dark blue, thickly woven, stripped of all its stars and silver thread. Colors, but no country. Like my Earth-born father, I have a new world, but no home.

I keep hiking until the clearing disappears altogether, until I'm deep into the endless field of towering blooms. I find just the right stalk, one thick with thorny buds, and I climb. I struggle, hand over foot, until I've breached the canopy, where the night meets the sweet, heady scent of velvet petals and rain-kissed leaves.

My fingers are sticky with bitter earth and fragrant nectar, but I'm secure enough, perched between two twining stalks. I tilt my head and stare into the sky. This is what I do. Every night, I look for the Evening Star.

Tired and restless, I come here to find him. I tell myself that he isn't dead and that the IP picked him up. I imagine what he must face each day while I'm here, safe and well-fed. Then I spin other futures. We recover Cash. James. Abasi. All of them, safe and alive. We march into the Spire and bring back my mother. Finally, one last task.

I face Benroyal, and he falls.

A rush of air. In the moonlight, a barden soars past my perch. I spy his black feather crown and the pearl-bright sweep of his wings. Slowly, he glides through the tangled swirl of poppies, moving east, then doubling back. He lingers here and there, drinking from a bloom, then winging through the stalks, searching for whatever creeps in the dark.

The barden flies up, circles one last time, then disappears. No prey in sight, I guess, so he must keep going. I wonder how far, and by what road. A thousand miles from here, the Palace in Belaram. Behind the horizon, the Gap. Beyond the stars, Castra is worlds away.

But if I close my eyes, I can still see it. I can still feel the scorch of midday, the sun rising over Capitoline. The memory of it burns like a flame in my heart. It's a fire I tend every day. I can't forget.

Because somewhere, there's a battle waiting. In the Spire, there's an unsettled score. A revolution's coming, and when it does, I'll be ready. I won't run. I won't lay low the way I used to do on the streets. This time, I'll rise, every talon curled and sharp.

I stretch out my hand and look to the skies. I reach for my Evening Star.

“IT'S EITHER EASY OR IMPOSSIBLE.”—SALVADOR DALI

I can't believe you're reading this. If you're really reading this,
Tracked
is an actual book. So can I just say? I can't believe we pulled this off.

Because
Tracked
is my impossible thing.

It wasn't easy to write it and bring it into the world, and I'm so grateful for all the people who helped me do it. I will never stop giving thanks.

To Sara Crowe, my agent and friend—you are my champion. Always in my corner, you've never failed to help me answer the bell. Thank you for everything. I could not have done this without you and the rest of the team at Harvey Klinger.

To Heather Alexander, my editor and advocate—you are my lamppost in the dark wood. I have learned so much from you, and your patience and tenacity are a gift. My words will be forever influenced because of yours.

To Stacey Friedberg, my editor and sounding board—thank you for pacing me through the last leg of the race. And to the rest of the crew, at Dial and beyond—Jill Bailey, Lauri Hornik, Regina Castillo, Irene Vandervoort, Dana Chidiac, Mina Chung, Lori Thorn, Elizabeth Rupp, and Jennifer Dee—thank you for your generosity, patience, and hard work.

To my husband, Chris, who always, always encouraged my writing dreams and defended them against the relentless monster of self-doubt. Thank you for your strong arms and loyal heart. Everything that's best in Cash and Bear? I borrowed from you.

To my son, Conor, who never fails to dream the grandest dreams. Thank you for teaching me to believe in them too.

To my truest friend, Caron Ervin, who has the kindest, fiercest, most admirable spirit. Thank you for the honor of your friendship. I owe you so much for carrying me, through thick and thin.

To my parents, who didn't laugh when I said I wanted to be a writer. To my mother, Marilee, who is endlessly encouraging, and my father, Charles, who's been with me the whole way, vicariously chasing the dream, getting just as choked up as his sentimental daughter. And to the rest of my family—to all my J's and C's. (And N's and K's!) I love you very much.

To Rosemary Clement-Moore, Kate Cornell, Candace Havens, Sally Hamilton, A. Lee Martinez, Tex Thompson, and all my friends at DFW Writers' Workshop who were never too busy to encourage or spur me on. Thank you for always listening.

To Julie Murphy (my darling JAM), who is strong where I am weak.

To Amber Swindle, for reading draft after draft.

To Jen Bigheart, for all the laughter and happy songs.

To Donna Lufkin, for inspiring so many of us.

To Mary Kole, for teaching me so much when I was just an embryo writer.

To Neil Gaiman, for your life's work, and also, for the hug.

To Dave Grohl, for your life's work, and also, for the distortion.

To my bookish friends, online and off, who have been comrades in arms—Erin Bowman, Mindy McGinnis, Victoria Scott, Lindsay Cummings, Kari Olsen, Kristin Treviño, Natalie Parker, Christa Desir, Jeramey Kraatz, Stacy Vandever Wells, and Britney Cossey, I'm looking at you. Also, the Fourteenery and the Freshman 15s and my Dallas Darlings and Austin Girls and the Houston Horde and the Lufkin 6 and the Literary Lonestars and so many more. You know who you are. I love you guys.

To the infamous, mercurial Mr. Happenstance, who taught me that a good deal of luck—finding the right person at the right time—can make all the difference.

Lastly, to you. I sincerely and humbly thank you for reading
Tracked
. It's not mine anymore. It's yours. May you always believe in impossible things.

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