Runny Red Blood

When I was fifteen, I was stabbed in the back by my circus partner. I fell and hit the ground from twenty feet in the air, broke two ribs, and almost bled to death on the way down. I suppose it hurt quite a lot, but it would've stung my pride less if it hadn't been in the middle of my own act.

Here is something that may shed light as to why I was almost killed.

Most people still sided with High Revel, including my partner. High Revel was a cult that discriminated against the Balancers, especially thinkers, and treasured the higher cores. Even after the War that preceded my lifetime by a score, they were still loathed. Thinkers were rare, and when they were pointed out, they were spat on, kicked, slapped, and denied goods and services quite often.

I am a thinker.

  (For those who don't know what thinkers are: the technical name of my Core is impossible thought. Thinkers can move things with their minds. They have a power called future sight, which allows them to peek into the future, usually only a few seconds at a time. They can also gain a slight control over other humans, but the grip isn't nearly as potent as a bloodletter's, and can also read minds.)

About seventy-six seconds after I landed on my stomach, two people appeared next to me. One had offensively bright violet hair, knew my name, and tried to keep me awake; the other was my age, had no eyes, and took away some of my pain. Many times I've tried to tell them, but couldn't find the right words: I am indebted to you.

My thoughts rapidly became muddy, my breath hooked and uneven. I knew dimly that I was dying but could not process it. My mind was normally so clear and organized that this new fogginess terrified me stupendously. I never want to feel that again.

I knew the name of the man with the obscene violet hair. He was-- and still is-- my best friend. Paul Hancock, to be exact. He was born and raised one mile away from me on the northern border of Izumo, in a quiet border town called Netsami. I lived in Frontara at the time, but I travelled with Paul and the Izumo circus he worked for. He is the one who convinced my mother to let me join his circus, his family.

He hadn't known I was a thinker when he first brought it up. He had known that there were High Revel sympathizers working for the Harlequin Morgue. I told him after the first time I was punched in the gut by a clown. He had choked on his drink.

I don't blame him for that. I will never blame Paul for anything.

"I looked for it everywhere, I promise! I didn't know Berstille was going to hurt you! Oh, God, if I did I would have stopped him! I am sorry! I am so sorry!" Paul sobbed over my squirming body. Seeing him like that hurt my heart more than the knife in my back.

I tried to grab Paul's wrist; his grip on me was like an iron manacle fastened too tightly. The movement only shot fire down my spine, and I cried out. I tried not to scream. I didn't want Paul to know how much it hurt. Tears sneaked down my face. I didn't wipe them away. I couldn't feel them. All my nerves had honed in on the spot where his knife protruded from my skin.

The boy without eyes, as I later learned, was Terrence Lightheart. He is a superb healer from Deblinn, albeit prickly at times. He saved my life. I didn't know what he did or how he did it; I was too busy trying not to die.

Shortly after Paul had fearfully whispered my name for the ninth-- no, eleventh? -- time, I passed out.

I woke up somewhere else. I knew before I had even opened my eyes. The room smelled earthy and alive. It felt more alive than anywhere else.

The walls were a dim brown color. Candle light skittered across the ceiling, fluttering over the herb jars on the shelves and the ceramic mortars and pestles on the tables. A small fire burned in a stone hearth in the center of the back wall. Cots waited on my left and right side.