Epilogue
Going Home
Winnie, Lesley decided, had superhuman hearing. The second Lesley had entered the tent, the wizened old woman’s already ramrod straight back had stiffened further.
‘You’re leaving with the other children,’ she said to the seemingly empty room. In front of her, an incense stick smoked in front of some portraits. Other than Winnie and Emil and Charlie, everyone in those portraits had lost their lives.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s good. I would scold you otherwise. Those two Domremin babies have wrought some wonderful luck for us.’
‘They’re hardly babies.’
‘At my age, everyone’s a baby, you big baby.’
‘If I’m the baby, why are you the one crying?’
‘You never stop being a sentimental idiot,’ Winnie sniffed. ‘Take care of Charlie… he’s already terrified of that big whale of an airship… an uglier thing I haven’t seen.’
Winnie still hadn’t turned around, so Lesley hugged her from behind.
‘Thank you… I really couldn’t have done anything without you.’
‘Of course, you couldn’t. Gods, has it only been seven or so weeks since I found you?’
‘Yes. Only seven.’
‘Feels so much longer… like I’ve spent all my life raising you.’
Lesley said nothing, but kept hugging Winnie, her head on the older woman’s shoulder.
‘Emil, the fool. He knew you’d be along to say goodbye… he never could stand them… I expect he’s found someway to keep busy. I’ll give him your love.’
‘You know we’ll meet again soon, don’t you?’
‘Aye.’ Winnie’s voice was utterly devoid of conviction. ‘It’s customary to give a outbound child some sort of token, but I’m all out of tokens. Sorry, child.’
‘I think the thousand or so kids I’m flying out are token enough, aren’t they?’
Winnie laughed. ‘Don’t you gobble them up.’ Abruptly, she spun around and laid a smacking kiss on Lesley’s forehead. ‘Bless you, and now go away. I’ve got things to do.’
Lesley gave Winnie a final hug, and stepped out of the tent. Less than a week old, the impromptu camp had somehow achieved an air of permanency. Without talking about it, without making a fuss of it, the refugees had collectively agreed that they were here to stay.
No one noticed her move through the camp, invisible. No one saw her approach the five massive, gleaming, black airships that rested on a wide field a little outside the faint, golden barrier. There was a wooden gate set through the barrier. It was narrow; at most two people could pass abreast. In front of the gate, at a wide table, sat a League of Nations-approved, Shamanate-appointed Listmaker. Stretching away in front the table was a line of perhaps three thousand refugees: children, and the parents who were tearfully seeing them off. The children passed through the gate, documents in hand, jabbering in excitement, restlessness, and apprehension.
On the other side of the gate, outside the barrier, two lines of the League of Nations armed guard formed a corridor to the Zeppelins; through this, the children walked. At the end of corridor stood two figures, flanked by adults, nearly as tall as the adults, but very clearly younger – the two Heroes of Domremy. One of them was speaking excitedly to a man Lesley thought she recognised from the Falstead Camp… hadn’t he been among the men she had broken out of prison? The other kept his eye fixed on the line of children walking through the gate, and streaming into the airships. He seemed very intent on this task.
Lesley ambled unseen past the Listmaker, and undetected through the gate. She wondered if she could just spend the rest of her life invisible… the thought was at once a little sad and a little appealing.
Invisibility relaxed you.
Around her, the children jabbered among each other. She tuned out their voices, trying to appreciate the last moments of her blissfully task-free vacation. Idly, she looked at the two figures at the end of the corridor of the armed guard again.
Yes, she had definitely rescued that man from prison. The girl he was speaking to must be Mango Piper. Mango shone with radiant happiness, adoration clear on her face.
Gregory Grey on the other hand…
He wore featureless dark grey robes, which was strange enough. He stood rigid, almost glaring at the children as they passed by him.
He looks a little lost, a little worried, and a whole lot stubborn, Lesley thought. She tried to sense in him any sign of a Sentinel, an ancient demon, but found nothing. Could two Sentinels sense one another? It didn’t seem so. His eyes continued their unceasing scan of the children.
It was when she was walking by him that she noticed it: his eyes fixed… on her…
Lesley stumbled in shock; her shoulder knocked into his, and for a second she was terrified she’d been found out… she dared not look around. Had anyone noticed the Hero of Domremy get jostled inexplicably?
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, eyes low.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, steadying her.
Despite a jerk, a sinking feeling, and coldness in her stomach, Lesley feigned her best nonchalant look. He could see her. She stole a stole a look at him. He flashed an absent, vaguely encouraging smile. She nodded, and stepped away, back into the line.
He hadn’t realised she was invisible to everyone but him.
He could see her.
He was Trueblood… and a Sentinel slept within him.
She climbed aboard the closest Zeppelin, but didn’t seat herself; if someone sat on her seemingly empty seat, things would be funny for less than ten seconds. From a window, she watched the line of children progress to the airships.
The whole thing had been somewhat mechanical – there were no grand speeches, no fanfare. Two days ago, the camp was told that a deal had been struck by which the camp’s children could be taken to safer custody. Two weeks ago, no one would have gone for it.
Then the refugees heard of the No Mage Left Behind Act. They hadn’t believed it at first. It had taken a day of furious debating, newspaper waving and minor scuffles before practically every family chose to send its child away. Only a handful of children remained, and these were raising hell in their resentful mischief. Lesley gave it a week before the rest of the kids were sent away.
The airships had landed last night.
The last of the line of kids passed through the gates. Lesley saw Mango hug the refugee goodbye, turn and walk ten paces to the airships, before realising Gregory hadn’t followed her.
That’s because Gregory was arguing with the Shamanate Listmaker, gesticulating wildly with his hands, and sometimes turning to look at the camp. When Gregory looked like he would step forward into the camp, the Shamanate Guard stepped forward, the message clear.
Gregory’s task here was done.
Mango accompanied the furious boy back to the airship… to Lesley’s airship. Cursing, Lesley found a seat on an empty row, and shut her eyes almost all the way. A moment later, the two Heroes entered the airship, and a steward shut the cabin door behind them.
‘Who’s Lesley Greene?’ Mango asked.
‘I’ll explain later,’ Gregory said, looking moodily over the passengers, who were looking back at him quite interestedly.
‘I’m sorry, Gregory… if she was a friend of yours. You heard the Listmaker… she didn’t survive the riot.’
Gregory snorted; he and Mango disappeared into the pilot’s cabin.
Lesley realised she’d been holding her breath… she’d been right.
The Zeppelin hummed into life, rose into the air; the others followed. The children, who had never been in Zeppelin before, fought to press their noses to the windows; Lesley peered from over their shoulders. Outside the window, the camp fell away; the airships flew north, and over the wall.
She was back in Domremy.
Lesley sat back down in her seat. Twenty minutes later, the zeppelin slowed, then descended. The children cried from shock at the sudden weightlessness
in their stomachs. Soon they docked at the Spire. Minutes passed; the cabin door opened. Gregory and Mango got off first; Lesley sighed in relief. She slipped to the front of the ship, and watched them descend a stairway.
This time though, there was proper fanfare.
Explosions cracked through the air; the children screamed, frightened. But it was only crackers, quickly drowned in a massive swell of noise, of applause. Under clear blue skies, with a brass band blaring triumph, Gregory and Mango stood before as many people as could be fitted onto the Spire’s largest landing platform… and the air was stuffed with carpets. The two Heroes looked a little stunned at their reception.
Gregory Grey had probably not realised how good this would be for his reputation, Lesley thought. As far as the conservatives were concerned, he’d quite redeemed the folly of his boons by scoring this against the Helikans.
Then her breath caught.
Nathaniel Eavesfather and Renata Eavesmothter stood here, resplendent and powerful, welcoming their Heroes. They couldn’t see her. They were thinner than she remembered, and Renata’s smile was slower. Unexpectedly, Lesley’s eyes teared up. Something about just seeing them again that was wonderfully, wonderfully grounding. In that instant, her world returned to normal.
Lesley brushed her tears off. She grinned to herself at a sudden urge to prank her parents with a sudden appearance right behind them. It would serve them right too. In fact, she decided she would prank them.
She passed unseen out of the crowd, until she found a carpet drop. Here, she faded into sight, and hired a bored-looking carpeteer to fly her to the Palace.
Twenty minutes later, in the highest room in the tallest tower in the Hanging Palace, she plopped down on a soft bed in a magnificent bedroom decorated in soft red colours… it had been a gentle golden in what seemed like a lifetime ago, when she’d been called in here, and told of the task expected.
Lesley fell asleep quickly, something she was getting quite good at.
She woke up quickly when she heard the scream.
The King and Queen of Domremy stood looking down at the bed, flabbergasted; Renata’s hand covered her mouth.
‘Hello mother, father. I like what you’ve done with the room.’
THE END
About the Author:
Ranjit Stanzin Sanyal grew up addicted to science fiction, fantasy, mystery and adventure novels. He had always wanted to have babies with his favorite books, and is now actively trying to make that happen. His interests include popular physics, human rationality and cognition, climate change and education reform. He wants to drive a Tesla Model S.
Find Me Online:
Twitter: @7Stanzin
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/stanzinpins/
About the Story:
When I was 12, I decided I wanted to be an Author. 61 abortive attempts/false-starts and 12 years later, I decided I wanted to be Writer instead. That’s when things started falling into place.
So yeah, this story has been a long, long time coming.
Sometime during late 2011, minutes before I was about to walk into an exam I’d stayed up the whole previous night slogging for, I had the greatest story idea ever! I had to write it down – immediately! I blew off the exam, purchased a large register, walked into a cafe, and began plotting. Three days, innumerable coffees and dangerously little sleep later, I had the rough plot for seven-volume fantasy series sketched out in longhand. (My story right now looks nothing like that sketch.)
I told everyone about that great idea, and how I’d be done with it in six months. I wrote two chapters that were very well received by a couple of 12-year-olds. I researched the whole publishing industry, and could quote numbers and stuff. I wrote my blurb. I sketched cover design ideas. I dreamed of movie rights. The writing, I figured, would take care of itself.
Never before, was the cart so thoroughly put before the horse. Obviously, this whole process was doomed before it could ever start.
Bereft of that initial blaze of endorphins, I spent the next two years hemming and hawing over my brilliant idea. Intense bursts of inspired prose (which were crap) were regularly chased down by long doldrums during which I distracted myself in almost every unhealthy way a tween* can. I poured out over a million words that will never, ever, see the light of the day. Not if I can help it.
November 2012, I began devouring TED Talks. I looked into hacking my mind (almost entirely theoretically, and natural methods only), and dabbled with stuff if it sounded weird enough. Whatcha know, it led into this whole ‘discover myself’ period tweens are famous for.
Come April 2014, facing the big ‘25’, I began to feel old. I had a brief panic attack about all those things I wasn’t doing, and all those things I wasn’t saying.
So. I began to write. Seriously. Regularly. Critically. And I came up, if I dare say so myself, a reasonably cool story.
I hope you enjoy the hell out of it. If you do, please leave me a review on the online retailer where you discovered my novel.
Cheers!
*I’m using ‘tween’ as Tolkien intended it to be used.
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