Last Day of Love(7)

I repress thoughts of Shiloh. “I have.”

“You will improve. The Zephyr derived from Leander. It intertwines our lives. It is also our weakness. Only one substance can kill us, but a single breath of it is death. This poison is a rare strain of the plant known as artemisia. It killed Leander and each of the eleven Seedbearers who have died—always voluntarily, always in the first moment of a new and stronger Seedbearer’s life.”

“Is that how my mother died?” I ask.

My family’s shared glances answer yes, but I can’t let myself care. “Where do you get artemisia?”

“We possess the only remaining quantity in the Waking World,” says Chora. He holds up a small metal chest. I’ve seen it before. It is one of five orichalcum relics salvaged before the flood. As her fingers trace the clasp, Albion walks over to her and places his hands on hers.

“Simply know that it is here, Ander, and well protected. Your life is never in danger as long as this chest remains with us.”

“If it’s so deadly, why not destroy it?” I say. “Why do we keep it?”

“We keep it to help one Seedbearer pass out of this world when a new and stronger one enters—like you. We keep it because we may perhaps one day be forced to choose death over life. But enough poisonous talk. There is another card.”

I place the last card next to the others. It looks faded, as if its red pigment rubbed off in my pocket.

Albion waits.

“Love drains life,” I whisper.

My family leans forward, watching me.

“Love is important,” Albion says. “Love brought you up to be a man. Love versed you in loss and sorrow, which leads to strength, which is detachment from these self-imposed vulnerabilities. Yes, love has served you well. But listen closely, Ander: love is child’s play. To assume your place among your people, you must prove you can grow out of love, and shed it like a snake loses its skin. Only then can you live forever, like us.”

“You may slip from time to time.” Starling, raises her frail shoulders. “It is only natural. But soon you will be a master. You will observe the passing parade of life for ages to come. You will understand far more than any mortal. You will recognize patterns and cycles that the greatest geniuses among them never can.”

“It’s astonishing, how their little life spans keep them sprinting on their various hamster wheels,” Critias says. His eyes close halfway in revulsion, so that only the whites are visible.

Albion studies me. “You should already sense a difference.”

I can’t be so unusual—but can the rest of them be this skilled at lying? Or is it that they’ve simply forgotten what it’s like to feel? Are they hypocrites, or insane? I take comfort in thinking of Solon, the exiled uncle I’ve never heard about before tonight. Did his failure look anything like mine?

“When Solon failed,” I ask, “why didn’t you replace him with a new Seedbearer, the way I replaced my mother when she died? Why didn’t you kill him instead of exiling him?”

“You tell me,” Albion replies.

I think; then I know. “He is too strong.”

My family closes in a tight circle around me.

“Prove to us you’ve changed,” Chora says. She looks at Starling, who steps forward holding something wrapped in foil. When she pulls the foil back, steam rises and a wonderful aroma fills the air. Keeping her eyes on my lips, Starling dips a spoon into the dark dish and says, “Open.”

I close my mouth around the spoon. The substance is sweet, buttery, crisp, and warm. Something deep and strong takes hold of me. The food is so delicious I can barely swallow.

Suddenly, I remember Starling feeding me this dish on cold mornings of my childhood. I remember her soft cooing as she wiped the corners of my mouth.

Blueberry cobbler. The words fill me with a mighty nostalgia.

But I must stifle everything I feel.

“What do you think?” Starling’s eyes betray none of the compassion I remember. This is the test. Years ago they planted this memory inside me. They fed me cobbler and feigned love, and now they want to know if I can conquer the only memory of comfort and safety I have.

“What is it?” I ask as blandly as I can.

“Leftovers,” Chora says slowly. “We thought you might be hungry.”

“We’d like you to listen to something.” Albion nods at Critias, who presses Play on an old tape recorder. The quiet night bursts into music.

“Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence.” Critias used to take me to St. John’s to listen to Eureka sing. This song often made the worshippers in the pews around me cry. It is unspeakably beautiful, and I can make out twelve-year-old Eureka’s voice perfectly, hear how her words are affected by her braces. I want to swoon, to fall down to the ground and scream.