The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(8)

“I told you,” she said, “I don’t use it.”

He sat back, gesturing to the two seedlings still remaining on the table, one half-heartedly growing roots while the other lay split open and bare.

The implication there was clear: Try it and see.

She weighed the outcomes, running the calculations.

“Who are you?” Reina asked, tearing her attention from the seedling.

“Atlas Blakely, Caretaker,” replied the man.

“And what is it you care for?”

“I’d be happy to tell you,” he said, “but the truth is it’s a bit exclusive. I can’t technically invite you yet, as you’re still tied for sixth on our list.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means only six can be invited,” Atlas said plainly. “Your professors at the Osaka Institute seem to think you will refuse my offer, which means your spot is somewhat…” He trailed off. “Well, I’ll be frank. It’s not unanimous, Miss Mori. I have exactly twenty minutes to convince the rest of the council that you should be our sixth choice.”

“Who says I want to be chosen?”

He shrugged. “Maybe you don’t,” he permitted. “If that’s the case, I will alert the other candidate the slot is theirs. A traveler,” he clarified. “A young man, very intelligent, well-trained. Perhaps better trained than you.” A pause to let that sink in. “It’s a very rare gift he possesses,” Atlas conceded, “but he has, in my view, a considerably less useful ability than yours.”

She said nothing. The plant, which had curled around her ankle, gave a malcontented sigh, wilting slightly at her apprehension.

“Very well,” Atlas said, rising to his feet, and Reina flinched.

“Wait.” She swallowed. “Show me the manuscript.”

Atlas arched a brow.

“You said three answers were all I had to give,” Reina reminded him, and the corners of his mouth quirked up, approving.

“So I did, didn’t I?”

He waved a hand, producing a handwoven book, and levitated it in the air between them. The cover slid open carefully, revealing contents of tiny, scrawled handwriting that appeared to be a mix of ancient Greek and pseudo-hieroglyphic runes.

“What spell were you reading?” he asked as she reached for it, hand already half-extended. “Apologies,” Atlas said, waving the book back from her a few inches, “I can’t let you touch it. It already shouldn’t be out of the archives, but again, I’m hoping you will prove my efforts worthwhile. What spell were you reading?”

“I, um. The cloaking spell.” Reina stared at the pages, only understanding about half of it. Osaka’s program for rune-reading had been somewhat elementary; Tokyo’s would have been better, but again, it had come with strings. “The one she used to mask the appearance of the island.”

Atlas nodded, the pages turning of their own accord, and there, on the page, was a crude drawing of Aiaia, part of the writing stripped away from age. It was a crude, unfinished illusion spell, which was something Reina had not been able to study at all beyond basic medeian theory. Illusion courses at the Osaka Institute were for illusionists, which she was not.

“Oh,” she said.

Atlas smiled.

“Fifteen minutes,” he reminded her, and then he vanished the book.

So this, too, came with strings. That was obvious. Reina had never liked this sort of persuasion, but there was a logical piece of her that understood people would never stop asking. She was a well of power, a vault with a heavy door, and people would either find ways to break in or she would have to simply open them on occasion. Only for a worthy purchaser.

She closed her eyes.

Can we? asked the seeds in their little seed language, which felt mostly like tiny pricks against her skin. Like children’s voices, pleasepleaseplease Mother may we?

She sighed.

Grow, she told them in their language. She had never known what it felt like to them, but it seemed they understood her well enough. Have what you need from me, she added grumpily, just do it.

The relief was a slither from inside her bones: Yessssssssssssssssss.

When she opened her eyes, the seedling on the ground had blossomed into a thin series of branches, stretching from her feet up to the ceiling and then sprawling over it, spreading across it like a rash. The one embedded in the table had cracked the wood in half, sprouting upwards from it like moss over a barren tree trunk. The last, the broken one, quivered and burst in a ripe stretch of color, taking the form of vines which then proceeded to bear fruit, each one ripening at an astronomical rate while they watched.

When the apples were round and heavy and temptingly ready to be plucked, Reina exhaled, releasing the ache in her shoulders, and glanced expectantly at her visitor.

“Ah,” Atlas said, shifting in his seat. The plants had left little room for him to sit comfortably, and he no longer had space for his legs. “So it’s both a gift and a talent, then.”

Reina knew her own worth well enough not to comment. “What other books do you have?”

“I haven’t extended an offer yet, Miss Mori,” Atlas replied.

“You’ll want me,” she said, lifting her chin. “Nobody can do what I can do.”

“True, but you don’t know the other candidates on the list,” he pointed out. “We have two of the finest physicists the world has seen for generations, a uniquely gifted illusionist, a telepath the likes of which are incomparable, an empath capable of luring a crowd of thousands—”