Such A Secret Place (Stolen Tears Book 1) Read online

  Cortney Pearson

  For my mom

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  It is such a secret place, the land of tears.

  – Antoine de Saint- Exupéry, The Little Prince

  I’ve taken this class so many times Mr. Price lets me teach it on days when he’s more unresponsive than usual. Most students would want someone who can actually do what they’re teaching, but the fact that I can’t doesn’t seem to bother these guys. Not much does.

  “I want you all to focus,” I say to the group. At sixteen I’m so much taller than they are. If they were a lake, I could skip rocks across each of their heads. “Call your magic forward and let it hover, just out of reach.”

  The six twelve-year-olds fidget and close their eyes. Almost at once energy surges through the air, stirring my hair and clothing as surely as a breeze. I can tell their magic is at bay, waiting to be released.

  “Now, very carefully, channel it into the receptacle. Your own receptacle, not someone else’s.”

  Each of them lifts a hand toward the windows in the divider at the room’s center. A shorter boy named Kirk, with a large nose doused in freckles, beats the other five to it. Streaks encircle Kirk’s wrist, and then magic spurts out and fills the canister, which is marked down one side with measurement increments like a thermometer. The enclosed magic glitters, but the streak is so explosive it sends Kirk backwards—right into me.

  My shoulder breaks his fall. Pain lashes clear to the bone, and I lose my balance and hit the floor, nearly dropping Kirk in the process. He lands hard on my leg and I cry out, my knee throbbing.

  Better my knee than his head, though.

  “My apologies, Ambry,” he says, though I know by his placid expression it’s just something he knows he should say, not something he really means. He wears no smile, nothing to separate him from, say, a mannequin, except the fact that he breathes and can waggle his fingers.

  I attempt to stand, cradling him because it’s clear from his drooping form he can’t get up on his own. It’s a good thing he’s small.

  “It’s okay. Are you all right?” I ask. “Mr. Price, a cushion please.” The teacher staggers forward and plops the cushion he was holding onto the floor. I lay Kirk down on it, wincing as I put pressure on my knee.

  It’s time to get back on track. I clear my throat, trying to remember where I’d been and what I’d been saying. “Now—”

  A girl named Lara steps forward, her head cocked to one side. Her large dark eyes penetrate straight through me as though I’m staring at a life-sized puppet.

  “Something wrong?” I ask.

  “Ambry? Why do you do that?” Lara asks.

  “Do what?” Kirk sits on his red cushion near my feet. Had I hurt him?

  “This.” She wrenches her face into a grimace. Instantly, her face slackens to its default mildness. The expression refuses to stick.

  I peer across the group. Mr. Price, Kirk and the other students, they all drift in ignorance. Detached. Unreadable. She’s just Torrented, I remind myself. Whatever deep emotion she once felt has vanished.

  “Oh. Um—that’s because it hurt.” I point to my throbbing leg. “When he landed on me, it hurt my knee and now it’s hard to walk on it.”

  The six of them blink. If they’re confused, I can’t tell.

  “It’s called a wince,” I go on. “Wincing, it…I don’t know, helps me cope with that.”

  “Why?” another asks. “Why do you still feel?”

  My brows raise. Any minute now Mr. Price will give me a warning or call me in. I shouldn’t have explained as much as I did. But their direct questions take me completely by surprise. “Oh, wow. Because I don’t have magic. Like you guys.”

  “I used to do that,” says Kirk, still sitting on the floor. The enclosed magic he jetted into his canister glitters behind him like a captured star. “I used to wince.”

  “Everyone did,” I say softly, taking in each of their faces. Kirk’s freckles, Lara’s dark skin and eyes. For a brief moment, I wonder if they were snatched from their classroom and shoved down the drafty stone stairway deep into a dungeon in the school’s underbelly when their magic Torrented. If they were held captive and starved until their magic broke free the way those of us in my year had.

  My best friend Gwynn was the first to Torrent down in that dungeon. She whimpered and whined more than any of the rest of us, and the boys kept threatening to knock her out just to get her to shut up. But the third day, lightning struck our small prison. Silver streams of it sizzled along Gwynn’s arms, filling the space with a tangible energy.

  Gwynn threw her head back, gasping at the ceiling while we all gathered around in horrified fascination. The silver streams slithered up and surrounded every inch of Gwynn’s small body.

  And then the silver faded. It dissipated within her, and each time a stream shrank away, something in Gwynn faded too. The quirk of an eyebrow. The smile on her cheeks, the sheer jubilation at finally reaching that milestone, at becoming a true Itharian.

  Gwynn raised a hand and sent a jolt of electricity into the canister near the door. Kids cat-called and whooped at being bathed in light once more. They surrounded her, begging to know—

  “What’s it like?”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Are your emotions really gone, too?”

  Gwynn’s vacant gaze was answer enough. She sat in the corner in silence—barely looking at me—until the soldier came and took her and her light away.

  One at a time, the other twelve-year-olds in the dungeon around me gasped, threw their heads back, or like another girl, Ivy, collapsed to the floor. I watched as the silver streams of their talents sparked and swirled, coiled around their wrists, spiraling down their fingertips. I watched the elation drain from each of their faces as magic broke and entered, robbing them of what made them truly human.

  A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts, jarring me back to the present. The six kids stand as stiff as fence posts, and behind them, Kirk's magic still gleams in its receptacle.

  Our principal, Mrs. Yarne, enters, wearing a fitted gray suit and black heels. She offers us a slight smile and my heart squeezes.

  It’s not real, I remind myself. Any emotion shown is perfunctory. That smile. A brief gasp. It’s the passion they’re missing. Like the wall canisters I’m trying to teach these kids how to refill, people’s hearts run on empty.

  If any moment were to make me cry, this would be it.

  My best friend stares at the elegant, three-tiered fountain in the center of our pre-col school’s outer courtyard. I make my way across the paving stones toward her. Sunlight
beams through the open space and its various leafy trees, and Gwynn notices my approach about as much as the water jumping from one level to the next does.

  This is who she is now, I tell myself, though my heart aches to have my friend back. My friend who used to laugh, who used to joke about finding the wizard who cast this spell in the first place and giving him a piece of her mind for stealing our emotions.

  I stare at Gwynn and wait for her to turn, for her eyes to glint with mischief like they used to. I wait for her thin mouth to shape even more beauty into her expression, to add light to whoever stands closest to her.

  Gwynn blinks from her daze and looks at me. Curls tuft at her shoulders like blonde clouds. Her face is doll-like, giving the impression she’ll shatter should anyone be too rough with her.

  “Ambry,” she says.

  “Time to head home?” I ask, gripping my books in one hand.

  Her mouth presses into a whisper of a smile and she nods. No gleeful, bubbly response about the days’ events. No reaction at all, really, aside from an automatic, seemingly preprogrammed, inert politeness. I’m not sure why I still hope for it after four years. But the pang in my heart from the memories of her before she Torrented won’t dissipate.

  Students file around us, making their way through the open space toward the street outside. A few chatter here and there, but most of them stare at their feet, saying nothing.

  A pair of Arcaian soldiers marks the exit of each student. The two men stand in their khaki uniforms with symbols patched on their shoulders and a name badge over their left breast pockets. They each brace a hand on the silver, three-pronged Xian claw dangling from their belts.

  I will my feet to move forward. Arcs have been raiding like crazy lately, taking people to Valadir—our capital city—to fight for them. They won’t snatch us from school, I tell myself, not where everyone can see. The thought isn’t at all comforting. If an Arc really wanted a person, it wouldn’t matter where they were at the time.

  When the Arcaians invaded from across the ocean all those years ago, Itharia welcomed them with open arms. And then the Arcs used their technology to wipe out our wizards and government system, going from town to town until they took control. Apparently, that wasn't enough for them. Raids have skyrocketed, men and boys being taken against their will. I wouldn't put it past them to take girls too.

  “Have you heard of Black Vault?” Gwynn asks, joining my side. It takes a few seconds for her words to register; my attention is still on the soldiers guarding our only exit.

  “Black Vault?” Together we cross the cobblestones and make for the widest gap between the columns that surround the courtyard and its few potted plants and stone pathways between classrooms. “Of course I have. What brought that up?”

  A soldier with a shaved head, manning the right-hand column, pauses as we near. His eyes pin to me, and I tense, sensing his scrutiny. I force my gaze ahead, but his dark eyes follow our progression with more intent than he paid the other students.

  Gwynn pauses as if noticing their increased attention as well.

  "Keep walking," I say under my breath.

  The soldier steps away from the column and swaggers forward, barring my way. I motion to pass him, but he sidesteps, jackknifing my pulse. He sneers at his partner, who closes in, blocking my other side. Unwittingly, I stare up at the wide pores scaling across the first soldier's cheeks, at the black goatee scratching his chin, and the obscure amusement in his expression.

  “You look far too…” His eyes trail down my body and back to my face again. “…alive,” he concludes, fingering the claw swaying at his belt like a disembodied skeletal arm with three fingers.

  That Xian claw is worse than any leech. When the bony middle nail sinks through skin, parts muscle and tendon to drill through bone on its way to the marrow, it’s not life that gets sucked away. It’s magic. And when an Arcaian soldier owns your magic, he owns you.

  Apparently, he knows I have none for him to take. But who’s to say he won’t try anyway?

  “I heard about you,” the first goes on. He jabs a finger at my shoulder, and I back away, heart knocking in my chest. “You’re that one who never broke free.”

  I know better than to argue with an Arcaian soldier. And though I want nothing more than to smash my foot into his solar plexus and make a break for it, I hold my ground. Gwynn dips her chin down, and I eye the claw click-clicking its pronged pincers in a not-at-all-subtle threat.

  The soldier slips a hand beneath my hair. I go rigid, pricking like a porcupine, and try to jerk my head free, but his grip knots tighter. His coffee-laced breath hits my face before he strays far enough back to trap my gaze.

  Something sharp stabs into my thigh, just enough to sting. Sweat sticks beneath my jacket, and my chest stops moving, stops working. I can hardly think, let alone breathe.

  "Maybe I can break that magic out for you," he says, eyeing my mouth as he twists the claw at my leg. Pain sears through, but I bite back a cry and grit my teeth.

  “Let me go.”

  He laughs, and the prick at my leg stabs harder. "Come on. Let's give it a try.”

  “What is going on here?” comes a voice from behind him.

  The soldier glances back and releases me with a shove. I hurry to regain my footing, fighting the urge to coddle the tender throbbing at my leg.

  Gwynn’s stepfather, Lieutenant Clarke Hawkes, towers over Goatee, who licks his lips with a small shrug. Lieutenant Hawkes is tall and muscular, with graying hair and sideburns, a strong jaw, and slight gaps between each tooth. Of all people to step in on my behalf, I never would have suspected this axrat. He’s worse than the Arc who was holding me.

  My gaze instantly flares to Gwynn, but she stares the way she did back at the fountain. Like a threat to my life is nothing more than trickling water. Urgency builds, amplifying my movements. Forget the fact that the old Gwynn would have helped me. I'm trembling, dying to escape, to protect her. To keep Clarke from touching her.

  “Gwynndol, you were to head straight home,” says Mr. Hawkes, leveling a shaded glare at his stepdaughter. He inches forward, one hand at his own Xian claw.

  So subtly I almost miss it, Gwynn’s eyes widen. “Yes, sir, I was on my way—”

  Clarke steps forward and smacks Gwynn hard across the face with a gloved hand. She shrieks and staggers. While the blow doesn't hit me, it punches a hole directly in my stomach nonetheless.

  “Don't talk back to me before these gentlemen. Do as I say, go home. I’ll deal with you later.”

  Gwynn cradles her injured cheek. I hurry to put my arm around her and guide her out into the street, fervently aware of Clarke's glower pinned to our backs. I should have stepped in. Curse it, I should have done something.

  "You okay?" I ask.

  A red welt blazes on her cheek, but she only blinks. I want to tell her to fight back, to poison his tea, maybe, but it's no use.

  “Black Vault?” I say instead. It’s about all I can say at the moment.

  Gwynn hobbles along beside me, eyes bent to the pavement, the surrounding trees, the homes lining the street. Though I know she can’t show it, repressed fear has to be festering beneath the surface like mold, rusting her from the inside.

  Arcaians are unaffected by the wizard’s spell to block emotions. Clarke Hawkes fell for Gwynn’s mom shortly after the Arcs invaded Cadehtraen, and the poor woman had no choice but to marry him. He’s been pushing his weight around their lives since.

  “I don’t know much about it,” I go on, trying to distract her. To distract myself. “Black Vault, I mean. It’s a traveling black market, right? It comes to town every few months, with gypsies and vendors who sell illegal magic. What made you think of it?”

  “It’s exclusive,” Gwynn says, watching her feet. Her voice is airy. “A place you can only gain entrance to if you know the right people.”

  We turn onto her street and she pulls her aud from her pocket. With a spurt of silver magic, she powers the device and
opens a message on the small, clear screen.

  “It’s here tonight,” she says, hugging her books with one arm while showing me the message.

  I snag her elbow, pulling her to a stop. “Here, as in Cadehtraen? Are you sure?”

  Gwynn nods without looking at me.

  I go on, more to get a reaction out of her than anything else. “Gwynn, this it. We should go, get you some tears! You could run away, get away from that axrat!” Maybe she could feel again, too. My pace quickens, determination fueling me the more I think about it.

  “Yeah, we could escape, get away from soldiers, from these raids! All we need is some tears…”

  She finally lifts her celery green eyes to me. “Tears? You think they’ll have tears there?”

  “That’s what gypsies do.” I try hard to keep my voice calm as several vehicles pass us, their wheels alight with the magic used to power them. “Sell tears.”

  Solomus Straylark tried to block our emotions completely, but he couldn’t control everything before he died.

  Even though emotions were banished by that wizard’s spell, tears still surface after someone has a powerful dream. The subconscious mind can’t be suppressed, I guess. Ordinary dreams won’t do it. It has to be the kind so real the dreamer wakes in a pool of sweat, the kind where it takes several moments of being awake to realize the event was all in their heads.

  A dream that powerful can make emotion break through. And tears sometimes come with the dreams. People bottle them up and sell them to gypsies or peddlers. They can get a high price for them, because when tears push through that magical barrier, they become magic themselves.