"If I were this dude, I would have totally called myself Tarzan," Keefe said as he and Biana gazed up at the house in the silver tree. The angry vines draping across the branches coiled around the quip and squeezed it tight, until he could practically hear the tension, a high-pitched thrum at the base of his skull.
"Probably shouldn't joke about dead guys," he murmured, stepping toward the base of the twisting staircase. Biana was standing there, staring at the ground like she was seeing a ghost.
Or a memory.
Keefe's dulling lifted almost subconsciously, as if it could sense his will before he spoke it. The thrumming in his head grew shriek-ier as Biana's emotions wafted from her body.
"Okay, maybe we shouldn't have done this," he said, stepping forward and resting a hand on her shoulder. At this point he turned the dulling back on; physical touch and his ability didn't go so well together.
"It's fine," Biana said, jerking away. She forced her gaze to the surrounding forest with visible effort and scanned the clearing. "You're sure the Councillors are gone?"
Keefe nodded. "I can't feel anyone's emotions but yours."
They were absolutely, one-hundred percent alone. He had secretly checked ten times.
"Seriously, how did the Navik guy live like this?" he asked, craning his neck to look at the base of the house. "It's so... quiet." A bird cawed just then, as if to scream NOT! He ignored it. "I mean, I could see the appeal for maybe a week—since no one's around to see you swinging from tree to tree naked. But that gets boring after a while."
"Are you talking about the monkey guy?" Biana asked, scrunching up her nose. "I didn't like that movie. One of the worst slumber parties of Team Sparkles to date." She smiled a little at their group name—it had been her idea—but after a moment it fell.
Keefe considered un-dulling his ability again and going all Empathy-lie-detector on her, but he figured that would be too invasive. Plus, he'd promised the Council he would be "reasonable" with his ability. There weren't strict guidelines for it like with Telepathy, since he was the only one that had it, but the Council was the Council.
Some things never change, he thought, looking one last time at the tree house. It reminded him of the ones at Alluveterre. He hadn't seen the former Black Swan hideout since they had retaken it from the Neverseen, but his photographic memory provided every detail.
That was back before his world had come crashing down. It had been the start of the spiral, but he could have climbed back up.
He remembered wanting to. Every time he would let down his mask, even for just a moment, Sophie would look at him with pity and fear and determination.
It had made him want to be determined to.
For her.
But he wasn't Sophie Foster. He was the son of the Neverseen's leader, a product of the Lodestar Initiative, later a product of Project Stellarlune. He had been made to be someone else.
Fighting against it had been no use.
So he'd left.
That was the first time he recalled Sophie's trust fracturing.
But despite his mistakes, she ended up loving him still.
Now, though, a part of him couldn't help but wonder if something had changed again.
"Are you coming?" Biana called from halfway up.
Keefe snapped out of his thoughts and ran to catch up to her. "I honestly—don't see the—point—in this!" he said through gasps of breath. On his last step he reached over Biana's head to hold the door open for her. "Don't you think the Council has already found any clues? If there are any, that is?"
"I thought you were an optimist," she chirped, stepping inside.
He followed her. As soon as the door shut behind him, the air cut off, making him hyper-aware of how stuffy it was.
Sun rays from the early afternoon pierced through slats in wooden shutters, which covered the windows. As Biana moved to open them, Keefe studied Navik Hishia's home.
They had entered a living room. Opposite of Keefe rested a circle of cushion-y earth-toned chairs. To his right there was half a wall, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering it. On the small partition of the wall adjacent to it were more shelves, but instead of books filling the spaces, there were random knick-knacks that looked, oddly enough... human.
A doorframe, absent of a door, beckoned from between the two shelves, and Keefe walked over and peeked his head through. He was now looking at a kitchen; wooden countertops, a small table, one wall made of glass panes that offered a breathtaking view to someone who had an appreciation of nature. His mind, however, barely registered it before moving on.
"What are you thinking?" Biana asked. Now that she was done lifting the shutters, her hands were fidgeting with her dress.
The sight reminded Keefe that she had no idea what she was doing either. He sighed a little as a weight lifted off his shoulders. It was the relief of knowing he wasn't the only one falling apart.
"Navik"—Keefe paused for a second to honor the dead—"must have been a loner. His table's small, and he only has a couple chairs. Notice no couches—which means no family. At least not living with him."
"He must've liked reading too," she said, pointing to the bookshelf.
Keefe pointed to the other shelf beside her. "And random stuff. Maybe he collected things?"
Biana grabbed a miniature globe from one of the shelves and spun it around. Keefe made his way over and picked up a wooden block with thin silver strips held by a metal bar. "What's this?"
He poked one of the strips, and it made a tinkling sound.
"This is human stuff," Biana realized. "Is there a connection?"
"Maybe he was a fanboy," Keefe suggested, shrugging. "I don't see what it has to do with the Purities or his murder."
"Right." She put their stuff back. "Let's go to the second floor."
He trailed her up the stairs and into a library. At least, it was sort of a library. The walls were covered in bookshelves, save for one, which was made of windows. There was a table in the center of it all, papers strewn across it and a singular chair tucked under it. Boxes upon boxes filled the rest of the floor, some open, some not.
It was chaos in its purest form, and Keefe immediately wanted to take a nap.
"Now this place, I could live in," he announced, raising his arms in a wide gesture.
"What is this stuff?" Biana asked, going right to the table. After a few seconds of shuffling, she huffed and threw some papers down. "It's in a language I can't read—which means it's a human language. Multiple human languages, actually."
"So... maybe an obsessed fanboy?"
Biana rolled her eyes. "I'm serious, Keefe."
"Yeah, I've noticed." The words rolled out of his mouth like they were practiced (which, in fairness, he'd been planning to bring her attitude up ever since they'd left Everglen that morning).
She sighed. "I don't want to talk about it."
"So there is something to talk about?"
"Keefe!" She moved to a bookshelf and pulled down a worn tome. She flipped through the pages intently—too fast for anyone to read.
"Are..." Keefe hesitated. "Are you and Dex good?"
She froze. Then sighed again and slammed the book shut. "I mean, it doesn't really matter, but"—her voice cracked—"Dex broke off the engagement."
A weird sound came out of Keefe's mouth. Two sides of his brain warred with each other; on the one hand, he had been right—Dex and Biana had been so awkward around each other recently—but... he hadn't wanted to be right.
Images of how happy they were clashed with everything else, creating a jumbled mess. Keefe groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Biana..." He shifted his jaw, changing "I'm sorry" to something else. But that wouldn't come out either. Nothing would.
He felt a horrible sense of relief washing through him. A part of him—perhaps the illogical part—had thought his friends were... well, perfect. Knowing they weren't gave him a disgusting peace.
He shook his head and released his dulling. Biana's sorrow and determination pummeled him, numbing his own emotions. He let her pain wash over his weightlessness, erasing whatever hint of calm he'd had.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked finally. Because of his Empathy, he knew before she even said anything that the answer was yes.
"I don't feel anything, Keefe," she whispered, plucking another book off the shelf.
Keefe's eyebrows shot up. "Er... what?"
"I feel things, obviously, just not... what I'm supposed to feel."
"And what are you 'supposed' to feel?"
"I don't know—distraught or something. That's how I would have reacted before."
Before? Before what?
He was about to ask, but he could feel waves of regret wafting off of Biana. Maybe she thought she had said too much.
He decided not to mention it. "I don't think anyone's supposed to feel anything. I mean, yeah, there are accepted emotions for certain situations... but people are complicated. We feel what we feel, and that's always valid, even if it's ridiculous or weird to someone else."
"But I'm not even upset about Dex! I mean, I should be, right?"
Keefe wanted to point out that she kind of was upset—after all, he was reading her emotions—but then he questioned whether or not the sadness was hers or his. Was he getting their feelings jumbled up?
He turned on the dulling, but remnants of her emotions were still there, weaving among his own. His heartbeat picked up pace as frantic thoughts raced through his head: What if her emotions stay? What if I can't tell what I'm feeling from what she's feeling? What if I become like...
He suppressed the thought, burying it deep in his mind, and as his panic faded, so did Biana's emotions.
"Feelings... are complicated," he said, taking a deep breath. "It's like they have a mind of their own sometimes—and it's why Empathy is sometimes compared to an elemental ability. The elements are tangible things elves have to grapple with for control. It's the same with Empathy sometimes.
"Like... like Vespera." The name tasted bitter on his tongue, and Biana shuddered. "She became numb from projecting others' emotions onto herself, until she couldn't tell the difference. It was so overwhelming her emotional center just... gave up.
"It's not the same, but lying to yourself—telling yourself you're feeling one thing when you're feeling another—can't be good either."
He wasn't sure if Biana was listening. She was staring at the ground, lips pressed tightly together.
Sweat dripped down his face—from the mega-awkward convo or the heat, he wasn't sure.
Keefe cocked his head. "Wait. Heat. There's heat in this house, but it's literally freezing outside."
"He can't live without warmth," Biana said, appearing as if she'd awoken from her funk. Then again, maybe she hadn't; she was still pretending. "I'm sure the architecture repels coldness, like at Everglen."
"But that technology never warms a house up this much," Keefe argued. "I'm going to go check in that room." He pointed to the closed door next to Biana. The stairs led up one more level, but Keefe had seen from the ground that it was a sort of observatory or something. Which meant this door had to be Navik's old room.
As he got closer, he heard a faint whirring sound. Now sweat rolled off his body like drops of blood. Was someone inside?
He counted to three in his head and flung the door open before he could think better of it. "AAH!"
"What?!" Biana squawked, immediately turning invisible.
"Oh! Nothing. I was just trying to scare the person inside... which there isn't a person inside, so that doesn't really apply..."
Biana blinked back into visibility and rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Keefe? What's actually in there?"
Keefe raised an eyebrow, not really sure what he was looking at. The room was standard; bed, dresser, closet, etcetera etcetera. But over by the window was a boxy white... thingy majigger. The top had slats, and out of the slats blew hot air. "It's kind of an ugly breath machine," he told Biana.
"A what?" She shouldered past him and walked inside. "Hey, I know what this is! It's in so many of those movies Sophie and Dex make us watch—a heater, right? Since it heats things up?"
Keefe frowned. Their search so far hadn't given them any clues to Navik's murder, but there was a running theme in his hobbies. "The dude really must've liked humans."
"Maybe he was an elvin human historian."
"But the Council discouraged any learning to do with the humans. That's why Human History wasn't a subject at Foxfire until after the war—trust me, there was this whole long debate among the Nobility, and I, being the awesome principal I am, was the brunt of everyone's frustration. Don't worry—I took it like a champ."
"Do you ever shut up?" Biana huffed, rolling her eyes again. "Navik was into humans. I don't see what that tells us about his death, other than the fact that the Purities are anti-human... Maybe they killed him because he was pro-human?"
"If that was their only motivation, then half of the elvin population would be dead. Besides, Navik wasn't an influential pro-humaner like the Black Swan or the Council. If they really wanted to make a statement, they would target someone powerful."
"Maybe they tried—maybe they failed. It's not like the Council or Collective is easy to get to."
Some of what Biana was saying made sense—that could've been why they'd targeted Foxfire: because they were trying to kill Keefe. But that still didn't explain why Navik was dead—or what his connection really was to the Purities.
"There's another thing that doesn't make sense," Biana murmured. "I saw Navik dead... and it was gory, Keefe. Like, blood everywhere, knife sticking out of his back. That's not something any normal elf can do."
"You think a human killed Navik?"
She shrugged, not meeting his gaze. "Possibly. Or... not."
Or not.
The words plunged through Keefe's lungs, making it hard to breathe.
There were only a selective group of elves he knew that could murder someone without going insane with guilt.
"Where are you going?" Biana demanded.
Keefe froze. His hand was gripping his pathfinder in a white-knuckled fist. He hadn't realized he'd grabbed it. "Somewhere," he muttered, lifting it to the light.
"Keefe, where? What are you going to do?"
He clenched his jaw so hard it cracked. "I'm going to see my mother."
_________________________________
Keefe Sencen had been good at reckless.
Keefe Foster apparently was too.
He tried not to let this bother him as he was led, blindfolded, down the twisting hallways of Lumenaria. He had been here once before, five years ago. Then, he had wanted to make sure she wouldn't be able to escape.
It shouldn't have been possible. After the Neverseen's attack on the building during the Peace Summit, the security had been amped up. As they moved, Keefe was almost certain they were walking on the ceiling at some point.
It should have made him feel safe.
Instead, it reminded him of yet another thing the Neverseen had damaged.
And at the time, he'd been a part of their organization.
You're not anymore, he told himself, damming his guilt behind the empty assurance.
But a part of him couldn't help wondering if he was doing the right thing.
"Whose cell do we take you to?" the guard on his right asked him. When he had arrived in Lumenaria's courtyard, he'd been told he couldn't speak any prisoner's name, in case someone overheard and somehow exploited the situation to allow for a surprise jailbreak. Keefe felt that was a tad bit far-fetched, but hey—when it came to the Neverseen, he knew not to underestimate their reach.
He'd been preparing himself for this question since, but the moisture in his mouth was still sucked out, suddenly making him incredibly thirsty. "Uh... Gisela. Sencen."
The name sent a spike of fear through his chest, and he had to inhale deeply to calm himself. It was the second time he'd called her something other than "she."
Another broken promise.
Wasn't that what he did? Break promises—hurt people?
Like he'd hurt Sophie. Like he'd hurt everyone.
It was easy to pretend he'd been forgiven some days, but his and Sophie's fight had only proven how wrong he was.
She hadn't forgiven him.
Maybe she never would.
But I'll keep trying, he thought. Another promise—this one not uttered. Perhaps he'd actually keep it this time.
"You have five minutes," the goblin said, jerking him to a stop. "If you need out, rap on the wall three times in quick succession. If there's an emergency, rap on the door twice. If you need more time, you won't get it."
Keefe tried to nod, thought the goblin couldn't see him, then realized he was the one who couldn't see anything thanks to the blindfold—but he'd already given a thumbs up.
Great—I'm already stinking at this.
Without any warning, the goblin shoved him forward, wrenching the blindfold off at the same time. Goosebumps erupted on his exposed skin (no capes or unnecessary clothing allowed, because goblins were obstinate) as he passed through something cold and slimy, but also dry at the same time. It felt like indigoober jelly—which made him regret every indigoober he'd ever eaten.
Before he could puke and make the whole situation worse, he made it to the other side. "Gah," he muttered, opening his eyes and feeling his face for wetness. Weirdly enough, there was none.
He barely had time to register that oddity before he was met with another one, this time right in front of him. Bright light from a force field illuminated a small room—or maybe it just looked small because of the roots covering every surface. They wriggled as if alive, seeking the limbs of the prisoner sitting in the middle.
She was hunched over, and Keefe got the sense there was an odd screeching noise—is that dwarven music?—doing something to her mind so she couldn't function at optimal level.
So... the goblin guards were from Queen Hylda, the creepy music from Nubiti, the plants a gift from the gnomes, and the force field an act of the elves. Keefe didn't have to look too hard to guess there was some ogre amoeba in the room too.
There was a side of him that thought the whole thing was a bit dramatic, but the rest of him—the part that won out—knew it was necessary. After all, he himself had underestimated her.
And look where that had led him.
Her head tilted upward, and—mostly to keep his mind off the whole WHAT-THE-T-REXES-DO-YOU-THINK-YOU'RE-DOING downward spiral—he imagined a creeeeeeaking sound, like one of those horror movies he'd convinced Sophie to let him watch. He'd had nightmares for a week.
But he probably would too after this.
Her face remained impassive as she saw him, but her eyes, reflecting his own, glinted with pleasure. "So the son returns."
Keefe didn't expect the fury that consumed him then. "I'm not your son," he spat, already shaking.
He hated that she did this to him, hated that he wasn't strong enough to resist.
"Oh, Keefe," she purred, straightening her back. A flash of discomfort consumed her face, and Keefe took what little satisfaction he could from that. "If you weren't, you wouldn't be here."
"I'm not here to play mind games."
"Then why are you here?" Her smile was catlike, and it ensnared him in its trap.
"I hate you," he hissed, stalking as close as he dared to the wall of energy. A fleeting thought played across his mind—maybe they're not to keep her in, but to keep me out—but it was consumed by the rage. "I hate you."
They were the only words he could get out. There was so much more he knew he could say, enough to shout until his throat was raw. He'd kept a reserve in his mind—Alden had taught him that, when he'd been too ashamed to go to Sophie or Fitz for help. Every thought he had about her, every emotion... He stored them there. Then, piece by piece, he would draw them out, deal with them one at a time instead of getting overwhelmed and breaking down like he used to.
But now the gate had been opened, and all he could think about was her, and how he hated her with every fiber of his existence while still somehow loving her, and he hated himself for that. It wasn't supposed to work that way. There was hate and there was love, and he couldn't have both—she didn't deserve both—but he wasn't so sure it was a matter of deserving anymore.
All she did was stare, a smirk—his smirk—dancing at the edge of her lips. The resemblance between them hit him like a brick, scraping his shield away, exposing the blood underneath.
He didn't have time for this, and he'd told himself he wouldn't fall for it.
Too late now, he thought, but he ignored his brain and focused all his hate into a glare and the rest of his energy into what he was here for. "Do you know about the Purities?"
One of her eyebrows lifted. "Ah, so you didn't come here to tell me how little you care for me."
Don't take the bait. "No."
The second eyebrow matched the first. "I don't know who the Purities are, if that's what you're asking, but I've heard... murmurs."
He was about to ask her what "murmurs" she could hear in a prison cell, but then he remembered the goblins. Had they complained about the rebel group?
That wasn't the right question, though. At this point he only had three minutes to spare. "I need to... How... How do I understand them?"
"So they haven't been defeated by the mighty Council yet. Interesting..."
Keefe growled. She was taking control again, steering this in a direction he didn't want it to go. "They can kill. They're not afraid to rebel against the Council and Black Swan. It's like they're following in your... in the Neverseen's footsteps. Like, I dunno, you guys are their idols."
The suggestion tasted like one of Ro's non-lethal (but still horrifying) amoebas in his mouth. He and the Purities couldn't be any more different. They looked up to the very organization that tormented his every waking thought. It was terrifying to think another rebel group thought the same as the Neverseen once had, especially after only a short period of time, but he had to think like they were. If he couldn't, then they would never know how to defeat the Purities, and more lives would be lost.
This was all riding on her, and if she ruined it—
"I didn't know they had killed already," she said softly. Almost too softly for him to hear. It was the first moment he detected a form of weakness in her, but this time he only felt pity. Not the kind for loved ones, but the kind that acknowledged she was nothing. Not anymore.
"Already?" he asked. "What do you mean? You knew they would kill someone?"
"I don't know anything—not in here," she snapped. "But if they are like I've heard... I suspected it, yes. I just thought it would be the Moonlark."
Keefe felt his jaw tightening at the mention of Sophie. For a brief second his heart lurched in fear—what if they were after her right now?
But no. She was smart, and she was powerful. She could protect herself.
She didn't need him to do it.
"Now that's an unexpected development," the prisoner drawled. "I always thought the Moonlark was oblivious to your flaws."
He leaned toward the force field, so close his hair started to stand on edge. "Tell me everything you can remember about the Neverseen. Your old tactics, training methods, secret passwords, entrances, plans, anything."
She sighed. "You don't think all that will help you defeat the Purities, do you? Honestly, Keefe, whether I am their idol or not, they certainly are nothing like me. I was never so messy. But I know what you're looking for—you're desperate. I've seen you like this before. Funny how you always run back to Mommy, isn't it?"
"Just. Tell. Me. What. You. Know."
"Like I said, I don't know anything. But if you want advice, I'll tell you this: if you ever expect to win another war, perhaps even before that war starts... don't let them fester. If you want to win, find their nightmares. Then pull them into the light."
Find their nightmares. Then pull them into the light.
He backed away, preparing to knock on the wall three times. But he paused with his hand lifted. "What do you want from me?"
His back was to her, but he could feel her glee; from a result of his Empathy or intuition, he didn't know. "Whatever do you mean?"
"You don't give things for free. There's always a demand—always a price."
"Would you give it to me if I asked?" He didn't have to say anything for her to know he wouldn't have. "Exactly. But, Keefe... there really is no need to ask. All I want is to see you."
He snorted. "Like that's ever happening again."
"Assure yourself all you want. But just wait. You'll be back."