By C. C. I. Fenn
“Where is he?”
“In the well.”
Lark and his wife, Shera, step out of their hovel and into the blistering sun. He places his hand on her shoulder.
“He’ll be safe there,” Lark whispers as they make their way toward the crowd gathering on the outskirts of their village. Just beyond, a massive skyship hovers four or five meters off the ground. Ten soldiers make their way toward the throng.
One man stands out from the rest. His uniform is deep violet rather than black like the others. Colorful insignias decorate his chest.
“The Recruiter…” Shera clings to Lark’s arm.
He nods. They reach the edge of the crowd and stop, dread gripping him.
Two soldiers follow closely behind the Recruiter. One holds a polished, oaken staff set with a translucent blue-green crystal at one end. The Zephyr Stone.
The other soldier carries a parchment scroll. Markings run up and down both sides, but they mean nothing to the gathered people. Grounders are forbidden from learning the arts of reading and writing.
The Recruiter surveys the crowd. “People of Phaen-Rah, I greet you in the name of the Imperial Republic of Phael.”
Above them, a floating archipelago eclipses the sun—a fear-inducing sight anywhere else but here on the plains of Phael-Ut.
And every year on New Year’s Day, the Republic sends a recruiter to each village on the wide plain below. He checks every infant born in the past twelve months for any affinity for the Zephyr Stone.
The chosen become Runic Mages, and they spend their lives channeling the energy of the great stone that holds the Imperial Republic afloat.
Today is New Year’s Day.
“It’s the day you’ve all been waiting so very long for…” The Recruiter pauses as he extends both arms in a warm gesture. “Will any of your children be chosen?”
Lark scoffs at his words. He knows as well as everyone else in town that there’s only been one baby born over the past year. His and Shera’s son, Ing.
The Recruiter motions for the soldier holding the parchment to come forward.
He takes a step and reads, “From the village of Phaen-Rah, Lark and Shera Nadian.”
The crowd stirs. Feet shuffle. A murmuring rises into the warm air. And then, starting with those at the back, nearest the couple, the crowd splits in half. Dozens of eyes follow Lark and Shera as they shuffle forward, childless.
The Recruiter’s voice halts them. “And where is the baby?”
Shera buries her head in Lark’s shoulder. He takes a breath and speaks, “My wife… miscarried. There is no baby.”
“Well then, it appears I’ve wasted a great deal of time stopping here.” The Recruiter pauses, then steps forward until his face is centimeters from Lark’s.
“Note their names,” he calls to the solider with the parchment. “We’ll need to confirm that their child is still miscarried next year.” He spins around and motions with one hand for the soldiers to return to the skyship.
The weight of worry drops off Lark as he lets out a full breath and embraces his wife.
A series of piercing barks cuts Lark’s relief short.
Everyone, including the Recruiter, turns to see the outburst. A spotted hound stands with his front paws resting on the town well, brief howls punctuating each series of barks.
Lark’s heart drops.
“Is there a problem with the well?” The voice of the Recruiter carries with the wind.
Lark struggles to find an explanation. “No. The strays just know where their water comes from.”
The Recruiter walks toward the well and eyes the rope dangling from a support beam.
“Then perhaps,” the Recruiter starts, “we should give him some water…”
Tears fill Lark’s eyes as his mind races. Every course of action seems like a dead-end. All he can do is wait and hope that his newborn son shows no affinity for the Zephyr Stone.
The Recruiter unties the rope and begins to turn the crank. A faint crying echoes up, and each turn brings the noise closer. As the wooden bucket rises above the well’s rim, an infant—covered by a wool blanket—wriggles within, like a jewel set in a ring.
“The Zephyr Staff!” the Recruiter calls to the soldiers. He takes it in hand and lowers it until the crystal touches the crying baby’s forehead.
Lark and Shera hold their breath.
The tip of the crystal gives off a faint glow. A gentle breeze passes through the air.
And a smile creeps across the Recruiter’s face. “We have Phaen-Rah’s next Runic Mage.”
As the words tumble arrogantly out of his mouth, the crystal shines like a bolt of lightning. The Recruiter struggles to hold onto the staff as he shields his eyes. A gale of wind blasts from the swinging newborn, sending the Recruiter flying several meters.
The well’s bucket sways, still holding the baby. His crying stops as he closes his eyes and gives himself over to exhaustion.
“Impossible…” the Recruiter murmurs as he stands, brushes the dirt from his uniform, and returns to the well.
He tucks the staff under one arm and grabs the child with the other. Then, he whistles to his soldiers and gives them a nod. As he passes Lark and Shera, he looks down at them, both crumpled on the ground and covered in tears and dirt.
“Happy New Year,” he says as he marches back to the skyship, carrying their future in his arms.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Keeps your attention, good
A talented writer! Let’s hear more from him.
Dang! I did not want the baby to be found.
Great story.
I loved the unique world you crafted!! The idea of sky cities and the on-ground villages being lesser was so interesting.
My heart broke for those parents losing their child!
GASP NOOO!!! How sad! I so need to know what happens when the child grows up, does he find his family again????