Eagles and Swans
Chapter 11: Divine Right of Nobodies
Ruthenia sat staring at her desk through all of Literature the next day. She'd received a zero on her recent essay, and staring at the donut scribbled in red was bringing to mind a plethora of doubts that she had never nursed before.
In the midst of her vacant staring she felt a tap on her right shoulder. “Why the glum look?” came Calan’s voice, startling her straight.
Ruthenia turned to the brown-haired boy, and showed him the essay score.
“Whoa, that's the first zero I've ever seen. Mr. Caldero must really hate you.”
“Am I an unlikeable person?” she said.
His mouth hung open for a couple of seconds. "Well..."
She groaned. "Just tell me."
“Well—I wouldn’t be so quick to call you unlikeable, but you’re not the darling of the class, either.”
Her brow furrowed. “What are people saying about me?”
Calan heaved a sigh. “You’re only making life difficult for others for no reason. If you don’t want to learn, then why do you attend school at all?”
“Because my boss sent me,” she muttered, propping her head up on her elbows.
“Boss?” Now Calan was blinking at her like part of her face had changed.
“He’s also my legal guardian.”
“You don’t live with your parents?”
“They’re not around anymore.”
“I’m sorry.” He gaped like he’d thrust a knife in her gut.
Ruthenia shook her head. “It's no big deal,” she said. “If you were me...what's the first thing you'd change?”
“Uh, well, for starters,” he was busy copying the writing on the board. “Maybe stay awake in class? Even if you aren't listening to a word the teacher says, it soothes their egos.”
She frowned in thought. “That's how it works, is it?”
At the first chime of the final bell, Ruthenia slipped out of the classroom before anyone else had begun to pack. She strode along the corridors with her umbrella on her hand and her bag bumping on her waist.
As golden hour swallowed the island, Ruthenia climbed through the afternoon sky. The Central Circle passed behind her as she shot through the sky, farmland beginning where the gold-washed meadows ended.
Helika City passed fifteen minutes later, the highest lights already beginning to glow through the amber clouds. She passed newsstands and police posts with chains of red lights on the edges of the roofs, and glittery Candelabra Town followed from the horizon.
It was all dressed in dusky pink, lights strung between lampposts across the flight-ways, gleaming in the glass facades of shophouses. She saw every manner of souvenir as her umbrella carried her past: crystal sculptures, animal skeletons in jars, masks on stands.
True to the town’s reputation, a cheap bookshop presented itself five minutes later, standing at the top of a stack of three shops, name outlined in gold: Berin’s Books and Curios. Decelerating clumsily, she slid off her umbrella onto its landing platform, which creaked with her weight. She pushed the door open in a jangle of bells.
Every spine in every wall of shelves was lit by failing kerosene lamps, the scent of mildewed pages clouding up the air. “Why am I doing this,” she grumbled as she took another wrong turn and came face-to-face with a shelf of holy texts and birdkeeping guides. “As if buying a book is going to change anything. Urgh!” She'd hit another dead end, with a taxidermied cockatoo in the cul-de-sac.
Mercifully, she soon ran into a paper sheet pinned to an eye-level shelf, a notice inked upon it:
⇐ Counter This Way
Teeth gritted, she marched down the corridor in the direction of the arrow. Many yards along, the corridor turned right, and, passing the bend, she finally found the glimmering shop counter.
Ruthenia would originally have assumed the shop was far older than its owner, but now she wasn’t sure. He sat amid a makeshift mobile of levitating watches and feathers, and whatever hair remained on his scalp was snowy white and combed over his baldness. He did not respond when she arrived at the counter, continuing instead to squint at the music box in his hand.
Ruthenia cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”
The man finally lowered the box, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “Welcome, Madam,” he murmured. “How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for a book titled The Legend of Helika Laceld?”
“Ah, the supreme work of Astran literature of the decade,” he murmured, stroking his chin. “A charming legend, that. But such a dark one to be giving children to read.”
“Where can I find a copy?” she said impatiently.
“Upon the shelf of classics, over there.” He pointed her in the direction she had come, so there she trudged, through the scent of mildew.
A tarnished “Classics” plaque inscribed was nailed to the relevant shelf. Being deep maroon and much smaller than its reputation, the book took her a good ten minutes to locate. As she teased it out with her index finger, the faint sound of tinkling music rose, delicate as a cobweb, from around the bend of the corridor. She returned to the man and his music, now in less of a hurry—as if the music were slowing her—searching her pocket for the book’s price of five argents.
Her arm knocked one of the shopkeeper’s hanging watches as she was paying; she apologised, but he seemed not to mind as he palmed the coins.
The clockwork music continued uninterrupted, carrying a melody almost too grand to fit inside that tiny box. It was the Helika Waltz, whose melody had been hammered into every child’s head from birth.
“Thank you for your patronage, madam,” he said, then lost interest in Ruthenia as he began humming along to the Waltz's tune. With an unheeded gesture of thanks, she picked the book up and left him to sing to his heart’s content.
At the start of Literature lesson the very next afternoon, Ruthenia reached into her bag. From within, she pulled the maroon book. Alacero gaped, making a show of rubbing his eyes, while Calan applauded as if she’d performed a magic trick.
Nevertheless, it was barely ten minutes before she began nodding off to the sound of Mr. Caldero’s droning, this time with her eyes swimminng in the words on the novel's first page.
At the closing bell, Ruthenia took her sweet time meandering homeward, stopping by at her favourite stand for a glass of milkshake in the breezy quietude. Imessa, the stand owner, was her usual smiley self, although she looked about as exhausted as she usually did at five o’clock.
When Ruthenia landed at Tanio's for dinner that day, he greeted her with a small, prodding, “where’s my spooled Thread?” to which she could only groan that he should throw himself into the river mud.
“What is spooled Thread, anyway?” she asked as she entered the house after him.
“It’s a product that’s never there when you need it,” he replied.
She kicked the door shut behind her. “Well, if it’s never there, then how would I ever find it?”
“I have to keep you busy,” her boss answered with a shrug. He left for the dining table before she could demand an explanation—just your typical Titanio Calied tactic, but one she often found herself unable to counter.
She surrendered herself to eating her raw fish paste sandwich without getting another peep out of him.
Thursday’s history lesson began as it always did.
The class gave Mr. Caeben a lukewarm greeting, one that he did not bother returning before resuming his lecture on the Astran bicameral legislature. The man was in the habit of tying students’ minds into knots with infuriatingly contrived language, and Ruthenia let her head drop to her desk with a frustrated groan midway, but the incisive rattle of the teacher’s voice in the afternoon air could not lull her to sleep.
The tutor ended the topic in the middle of the hour, which prompted a swell of hopeful conversation—but then Caeben opened the other textbook on his table, sending the class into a clamour of groans and mutters as he resumed.
“I take it each one of you has heard at least a thing or two about governmental checks and balances,” said Mr. Caeben, eyes sweeping the class. “Can anyone explain their importance? You, Mister Medale?”
Dariano, even prepared as he always was to be called upon, shot up in his seat with a start and dusted out his notes; in the silence, the rustle of pages was audible. “They—they prevent abuses of power,” he said hastily, “by distributing it among multiple people, Sir.”
Mr. Caeben nodded. “That is a simplification,” he said, “but you have the right idea. Separation of power is, indeed, a mechanism by which governments prevent particular individuals or groups from wielding sole authority over state legislation and its enforcement. In Astra, power is divided between the heads of state, namely the Arcane and Ordinary Kings, the advisory councils, and the Helika Court. Each—”
“How about the clergy?” Ruthenia interjected, just loudly enough for Caeben to hear.
The man paused to look at her. “Excuse me?”
She did not, at that point, realise that this was a decision she would regret. “The clergy?” she repeated. “Are you telling me the clergy isn’t a seat of power? Well, it’s no wonder they keep getting away with it!”
Mr. Caeben was mute for a while. Around them the chatter grew uncomfortable. Some classmates on the left side of the room glared like she’d just called for the Archbishop’s death, but she wasn’t interested in their annoyance. She met the tutor’s eye.
The man cleared his throat, gaze stone-cold. “Conspiracy theories are not welcome in history class,” he said with narrowed eyes, amid a crescendo of voices. “We will discuss the clergy at a later date, but not in the context of separation of powers.” With one last scathing look, he lifted his chalk again. “Let us continue.”
She balled her fists. “Sure, go on and pretend it isn’t true!” she muttered, but the man had returned to the blackboard, leaving behind an unsettled muttering.
Alacero sighed from her left. “You’ve got to cool down and stop taking classes personally.”
“You don't get it, you don't get it,” she growled.
At the chime of the clock tower bell, Ruthenia dashed out of the classroom. She thundered onto the elevator before the tea break rush had begun, descending soundlessly inside the granite chamber while the first of the chatter awakened in the levels above. She ate all alone in a corner of the cafeteria, refusing to meet anyone’s eye.
The feeling something was amiss began to creep over her as she passed the doorway to the smoking room on her way back for Geography. A gaggle of classmates hung by the doorway mid-departure. At the centre of the huddle was Iurita, whom they were all humouring with their chatter.
Ruthenia held her gaze away as she passed. But before she could pass, the Arcane lady held up a hand to stop her, and clicked her tongue when she tried to ignore it. “In a foul mood, little rebel?” she cooed, and her entourage snorted and cackled on cue.
Ruthenia stopped. Before she could check herself, she spat, “You have much to say to that, Mayoress in Training?”
Rather than dignify her with a reply, Iurita lifted her nose and strode away. Her clique hissed and sneered, and as they left, cold dread crept up her back.
“Ruth? Careful.” She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned. It was Orrem. “Watch what you say in front of them.”
She bristled. “I'm not about to hurt them! Aren't they all about speaking in hypotheticals? It doesn't have to mean anything.”
“It does if they want it to. You know how easily they twist the truth.”
Ruthenia glowered. “I can't believe they’ve suffered so little that this is the only thing they think worth fighting over. Me telling the truth in class. And you know what? I don't care.”
Orrem sighed with a sag of his shoulders. “It must be nice getting to not care about class politics,” he said, staring down the corridor beyond her.
“You don’t have to care, either.”
He shook his head. “Caela's father is on my team's board of sponsors.”
“Oh.” She paused, thinking again of Tanio's cryptic words at dinner. A game, he had said. This game certainly had a lot of rules. “Your sponsor. I guess that would be a spanner in the works.”
Some distance behind, the lift doors hissed open, inviting the shuffle of footsteps into earshot. Orrem turned, waving at Dariano at the other end of the hall. “Hey, take care,” he said over his shoulder. “As much as you might want to ignore the power plays and machinations...you're going to be here for a while.”
Ruthenia was left standing alone in the hall, sighing to herself. Machinations, in a high school class? Was this what Tanio was paying for?
That night, there began a howling wind-storm, one that flung the bridge into a wild dance as Ruthenia inched along it, gripping the ropes so tight that her fingers burned.
She found Tanio sprawled out on his smaller couch, face buried in the creased pages of the Helika Afternoon Herald. An electric lamp glowed on the coffee table beside him, as it did every evening he spent reading on the couch after dark.
Today, he was the very image of unruliness, his top button loose and not a strand of hair in the right place. Papers were strewn across the living room floor, gathering around the legs of tables, each sheet covered end to end in his spidery scrawl. A sculpted mass of wire sat on the coffee table, like a bird’s nest, gleaming in the lamplight.
The kitchen windowpanes rattled to welcome her, and between the walls the place seemed to shrink in on itself, cowering from the raging sky. With the muted chatter of rain all about her, Ruthenia picked the lone plate up off the counter, a loaf of bread and three of what might be Tanio’s very first meat patties cradled inside. She snatched a couple of utensils out of the drying basket and a bottle of oyster sauce out of the pantry.
Her first mouthful made her eyes widen. All at once, she found her appetite renewed, and as she ate she calculated on the likelihood that her boss had kidnapped a chef.
Wolfing down the last of her dinner, Ruthenia wiped the crumbs from her mouth with her wrist and dumped the plate into the basin with a splash.
By the time she returned, the boss had abandoned the newspapers to the coffee table and was once again fiddling with the wire mesh with a pair of pliers. The arrival of her footsteps made him look up.
“What did you think?” he said.
“Don’t cook anything else ever again,” she answered, then flung the main door open.
A howl of storm wind exploded into the living room and engulfed her, slamming the door into the wall. She stumbled outside and turned to drag the door shut with both hands while hair pricked at her eyes.
Plank by rocking plank, she crossed the swinging bridge. The wind reared up and crashed down in dark majestic tides around her while the ropes creaked to the rhythm of the frenzied roaring wind.
She faltered to a stop at the very centre, as the sky began to rumble all around her. The bridge swung, and she swung with it, helpless and free, like a child flying for the first time. She laughed.
Out on the northeastern horizon, Helika’s light was marred by rain, millions of falling drops capturing the glow of the houses below. She could smell the downpour approaching, echoed in the clatter of neighbours closing their windows.
She turned briefly to take in the sight of Tanio’s house, which swayed ever so gently, straining at its Threading while the turbine swung with mewling creaks. Tanio probably couldn’t feel a thing. Not now, now that his mind was captive to a grand new undertaking. The light filtered through the first level windows, diluting the dark.
The flash of a white-hot spear of lightning announced the arrival of the curtain of rain at Beacon Way. Only then did Ruthenia begin to scramble up the remaining length of the bridge, but too late, finding herself drenched before she’d made it to the end.
The gush of rain stung her eyes, clouding up her view of the patio ahead. She gasped out as her foot lost purchase on the wood and slid. She choked on the rain as her knees met the bridge and her hands snatched for the ropes.
…let me go! Let me go!
A torrent of inexplicable sadness startled Ruthenia back upright. Her grip tightened on the handholds. She scurried over to her patio and flung herself back into her shed, slamming the door shut behind her.
There she stood, waiting till the sound of rain had drained from her ears, and all she heard were the rattling of her trapdoor and the drip-drop of water at her feet.
As she wrung the water out of her hair, she shivered at the memory of the soundless voice that had rattled her insides. A dark puddle was pooling at her feet. With a toss of her soggy pony-tail, she made for her wardrobe, a trail of raindrops following her.
Ruthenia discarded her rain-heavy clothes and changed into a fresh shirt and pair of slacks. The comfort of dry, warm cotton helped to ease the vestiges of terror away. She spent the evening sorting screws and bolts that she had tossed haphazardly into her toolbox, wind whistling on the outside of the shed with every swell of the storm. Tanio did not cut the power as he usually did at ten o’clock, and she unknowingly worked half an hour past her bedtime.
Finally, she rose from her hunch with a stretch and a yawn amid the waning pitter-patter of the drizzle. Through her rain-stained window she could see Tanio’s windows across the gap, still glowing hazily.
Crossing the shed floor, Ruthenia shut off the light with a resigned click. Then in the darkness she forged her route back, and swung into her hammock, all thought deserting her the moment her eyes had closed.