“We’re not kidnappers.”
“We deracinated a young woman. I believe that makes us kidnappers.”
“What are you saying?”
Darren and Iris looked into the backseat of the battered truck. Iris had given her an extra set of sweatpants and a shirt to wear, but even such baggy clothes couldn’t mask the innocence and frailty of their stowaway. Large dark eyes set in a narrow face, body adorned in nearly snow white skin. White blond bangs framed her large forehead while waves of the thin strands cascaded down her shoulders.
Impossible was the only word that could describe her.
Iris faced forward. Without the face paint, her scowl burned at her usual intensity. Scalding. “I’m sure there are some indigenous people near those mountains.”
“Is that insight from the trees, or your anxiety?” She didn’t respond.
Similar to how Darren could inherit the memories of dead animals, she could inherit the history of a landscape via the trees. He immediately brought her on as his assistant a few years after joining the archives. Only she understood his gift; many found his hobby distasteful and pointless.
He glanced at the rearview mirror in order to look at the concerned girl. “We are discussing how best to help you. Have any memories returned?” The truck bumped along the uneven road, but he caught sight of a head shake.
The worn engine grumbled over the hill, purring more calmly after breaking the top. The Tundor Basin stretched beneath them. Where many lands on the continent had resigned to skyscrapers and smoke-pumping factories, the basin retained a small-town charm. Cobblestone streets around oak-filled parks. Curved, clay-tile roofs and two-story stores.
All leading to the gem of the city, the Mage Council’s Spire. Sprouting from the center of the circular grid, the tower grazed the clouds with its bluish-green brickwork. Sunlight glistened off the carved windows and moss growing along the seams.
“We should take her to the proper authorities.”
Darren eased off the accelerator, giving Iris a crooked glare. “And they’ll do what, put up posters? We’ll learn more in the archives.”
Her thick eyebrow quirked upward. “Like what?”
“Ancestry. Someone as unique as her would be recorded for posterity.” The ride grew smoother in the valley than it had been within the mountains. Most preferred to travel by bike within the city limits, teleportation stations used to get outside. Only those who had lived on the outside still owned heavy-duty vehicles such as his. The low rumble notified cyclists to veer to the sides of the road.
“Why do their vehicles look strange?” The young woman looked outside the windows, gaze void of interest.
Iris sat her elbow on the door, averting her face from the outside. “It’s actually our vehicle that’s the strange one.”
Darren massaged the worn leather wheel, gnawing the inside of his cheek. “Travel anywhere else on the planet, and you’ll find gas-guzzling, noisy trucks.”
“Then perhaps you should live in one of those places.”
As if he didn’t ask himself this before.
“I would live here. It’s peaceful.”
Iris, finding no irritated gazes along the pristine sidewalks, sat forward. “Hence why so many want to get rid of these beasts.”
“Despite the beast,” their guest clarified. “The peace comes from the community, not the sound.”
The head archivist and his assistant glanced at each other. Darren slowed before turning right toward the residential area. His home sat near the end of the street, allowing him to park his truck beside his two-story paradise. The loft held his study, desk peeking through the circular window. The red roof curved over the white-washed walls. Square windows framed the arched red door and short stairway.
They climbed out, Darren and Iris lugging their equipment while their young friend walked across the grass. She stood perfectly straight beside the doorway until he unlocked the entrance with the wave of his hand.
The mixture of past and present always mystified him. Mainly when he looked upon the blue-green box that materialized within his foyer every morning with a collection of letters. You’d expect people to use email. Hardly mattered to him; a letter was a letter. Still, what they kept and what they despised of their modern world confused him.
Hence the simplicity of doing what he knew best. Hunting, driving a truck, and tearing open a cream-colored envelope from the mailbox.
“How?” Iris’ exclamation pulled him away from the concise words of his father. Her dark skin paled as her golden eyes perused the one-sheet news update. She sensed his question, twisting the paper to show him the headline.
“Red Guard Officer Thomas Braggard Appointed to Mage Council.”
The letter in his hands fluttered to the hardwood. His mind stalled, checking and rechecking that he’d read the headline correctly. Goosebumps raced up his arms as the truth slowly hit.
The girl of white glanced at the paper, then the two baffled archivists. “Is this bad news?”