Page 9 of Wings of Ebony
I’m not one of them.
Patrol lines the outskirts of the audience, their fingers glued to their chests too. No idea what the gesture means, but judging by their reverent stares, it’s some allegiance type shit.
The only other brown face in this place… in this world… is on the corner of the amphitheater stage in a too-small chair. The man I basicallyjustmet. The one Moms laid up with to make me: Aasim.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do any of this, but he didn’t make it sound like I had a choice. He looks at me and his lips crack a weak smile.
I look away.
I told him not to bring me to this place.
I told him I don’t want their gift of magic or whatever.
I told him, let me go to Moms’s funeralat least.
And yet, here I am.
“We have to go now,” he’d said, like I’d asked for his help. Like I needed him.
I didn’t and I don’t.
Now, barely a month here and I’m obligated to participate in this “honor” held twice a year. “To help you get acquainted with your new home,” he’d said. Like, what does that even mean? I’m not one of these people and won’t ever be.
Behind me a buzzing line of sixteen-year-olds chirp like prating birds. They don’t say anything to me and I say nothing to them. What’s the point? The only one here who’s half-human… who I’ma talk to? About what? From my room, to class to meals I can barely stomach and back home again. This is my new life.Thanks, Aasim.
On stage, a musician with a braid that dangles all the way to the floor plucks strings on a bowl covered with what looks like animal hide. Peering closer, I realize there are no strings. Just his fingers dancing across the leather daintily, somehow filling the air with a tune. His head sways, the balls of onyx in his wrists shining. The sweet lilt of his voice isn’t lost on me. Tasha loves birds and his melody would put a lark to shame.She’d love to see this.For a moment my baby sister’s face is all I see.
The music livens, yanking me back to the present and the twenty or so giddy Ghizoni in line with me, constantly glancing at me when they think I’m not looking. I shrink a little. I should have stayed in my room. Anywhere but here. Under all these eyes. Strange, curious eyes.
It’s not just their gaping that makes me uneasy, it’s the tilted stares and whispered words on my way here from the dorm. Any time I pass, really. It’s not just the buzzing magical energy pumping through this place like electricity. It’s not just thatno onehere looks like me—buthim.
It’s that this is not my home.
These ain’t my people.
And after seeing Moms’s blood bathe our stoop, home is the only place I wanna be. In my bed, wrapped up in the blanket Moms found for me at that garage sale that one time, hugged up in her smell, on her pillow. The thoughts of her used to make me sad, bring tears. Now… I don’t know what I feel.
Nothing. Is that a feeling?
A horn sounds and at the entrance to the Amphitheater, in the very back, a burly man appears. His head of wispy white hair folds upward like a crown, then cascades down his back in knots. Golden ornaments in his hair jingle with each of his steps.
The Chancellor—the guy who runs Ghizon.
He descends the steps, Patrol clinging to his sides like he’s royalty. I met him once when Aasim’s secret of being laid up with Moms first got out. He was an asshole, real condescending like. And not just with his words. Something about the way he held his chin, the way he looked at me when Aasim admitted his crime: making me.
The Chancellor waves to the crowd and the edges of the aisles pull to him like magnets, grasping for any piece of him within reach. An exuberant few kiss his robes. Gems hug his knuckles and he smiles, cupping the face of some lady’s baby. She about faints. He climbs the stage with one more wave and it’s then I notice the screens are all his face. He holds his arms wide and everyone, literally everyone in the arena, stands, hands over their chest.
Around me the jitters have quieted and every student waiting to be Sorted is rigid, fingers knotted with a glaze of adoration in their eyes. The Chancellor stops in front of a chair inlaid with gems largerthan the rocks on his fingers. He surveys the crowd, a warm smile on his lips.Ugh.
His eyes land on mine and with each breath his smile thins.
I dig my hands into my pockets. He still stares expressionless, and yet I feel like maybe he’s trying to say something by not saying anything at all. This is weird. Really weird.I—I… what do I do?I peer around at the knotted fingers thing and try twisting mine, but before I can actually move, he gestures for everyone to sit, his gaze still on me as he plants in his chair.
Another horn sounds, this time twice, and the girl first in line is two heads in front of me. She steps up on the stage platform, her red hair blowing, where an old woman greets her with a grimace. I don’t know what exactly happens when you’re Sorted, but I’m near the front so this is almost over.
The music quiets and the old lady, who’s the Sorter by the looks of it, is hunched over, waiting. But not like she means to be; like she just walks that way permanently. A million creases fold her sienna skin, tanned from the sun. Without it, she’d be white or gray or whatever like everybody else here.
I don’t know what she’s ’bout to do or how she’s going to do it, but whatever it is, it ends in being assigned to a group. Curiosity has me craning my neck harder to see. Aasim mentioned something about it determining my job, how I’ll contribute to Ghizon society. I don’t wanna work here. I don’t even wannabehere.
