Neverseen (Keeper of the Lost Cities, #4)

“There’s my iPod,” Sophie offered, even though she really didn’t want it destroyed. The small human gadget had been her constant companion growing up, her only way to drown out the bombarding human thoughts before she knew how to shield. Plus, it was one of the few human things she had left from her old life—and Dex had made all kinds of cool tweaks.

“Nah,” Dex said. “Anything modern would be too advanced. I don’t even know if humans knew electricity existed back when this archive was made.”

They didn’t, Sophie realized. “Okay . . . so we have to figure out what they did have.”

Chariots? Plows? Bows and arrows? Were any of those thousands of years old?

“I remember learning in school about an Iron Age, a Bronze Age, and a Stone Age,” she told them. “Where humans made tools from those different materials.”

“Hmm. I’m already using bronze and iron for some of the other creatures,” Dex said. “But I guess I could try stone—though I have no idea how stone counts as ‘technology.’?”

“It makes a pretty decent weapon,” Keefe mumbled. “Just ask my mom.”

He rubbed his head where she’d given him a gash during her attempt to steal Silveny.

No one seemed to know what to say to that.

“I think that’s my cue,” Keefe said, heading for the door. “Call me if you decide on an ogre invasion.”

Dex stood too, stuffing the Twiggler into his satchel. “Guess I need to go rock hunting. Wanna come with me?” he asked Sophie.

“We really need to work through some Cognate exercises,” Fitz reminded her. “We lost a whole week when I was sick.”

The old Dex would’ve glowered and muttered something about Telepaths. But the new Dex just nodded and said, “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Can I go with you?” Biana asked him. “If I don’t let Iggy get some exercise, he’s going to shred another one of my favorite shoes.”

Biana must really love the little imp if she was willing to forgive footwear destruction.

“At least he’s doing well on his diet,” she told Sophie. “I think he’s finally getting a taste for vegetables!”

It turned out Iggy had most definitely not gotten a taste for vegetables, and Biana stomped back an hour later, muttering about “stubborn imps.” Sophie assumed it had something to do with the giant moth wing Iggy was crunching on.

Della returned not long after, looking uncommonly frazzled. Her hair was tied back in a sloppy bun, and her gown was stained and wrinkled.

“Everything okay?” Sophie asked.

Della shook her head. “Physic had done some research on human comas, and she’d come up with a treatment plan for Prentice, with cold and hot compresses and balms and elixirs. We tried it today, but somewhere in the process he stopped breathing and everything unraveled. We got him breathing again—don’t worry. But . . .” Della stared at the ceiling. “I think we’re officially out of ideas. Nothing seems to matter.”

If words could cast a shadow, they would’ve darkened the whole house.

“I’m sorry,” Della said, heading toward her room. “I don’t mean to despair. I’m just tired of sitting at Prentice’s bedside telling happy stories and trying to pretend I’m not partially there for completely selfish reasons. I want him to get better, but . . .”

Sophie knew what she meant.

Della was still worried about how Prentice’s condition would affect Alden.

“Anyway, good night.” Della kissed her son on the top of the head, then did the same to Sophie before she headed for her room. “Don’t stay up too late working. You’ll need plenty of rest before another day at Exillium.

Sophie knew Della was right, and went to bed an hour early. She also ate a double portion of breakfast the next morning in case they were in for another round of appetite suppression. She was prepared for anything Exillium could throw at her—until they leaped to campus and arrived in the heart of a plague zone.





FORTY-FIVE


NOW SOPHIE KNEW what the ancient gnomish songs had meant by their warnings of a great Withering and an endless Fall.

The Exillium tents had been set up along the edge of a sheer cliff, overlooking a blackened, shriveled woodland. The tree trunks were twisted and cracked, their branches sagging and drooping, and their speckled leaves blanketed the ground in heaps of mold green and sallow yellow.

“Where are we?” Sophie whispered.

“It doesn’t matter,” her purple Coach said behind her.

The five friends turned to find all three Coaches looming over them. Waywards milled nearby, pretending they weren’t eavesdropping.

“How can you say that?” Biana asked the Coaches. “Don’t you know what’s happening down there?”

“We don’t,” the red Coach said, “and we aren’t supposed to.”

“That’s not our world,” the blue Coach added. “It’s simply scenery.”

“So you don’t care that—” Sophie started.

“We don’t,” the blue Coach interrupted.

“We can’t,” the purple Coach clarified. “We know our place, and the role we’re expected to play. The five of you need to learn yours.”

“You’re no longer part of a community,” the red Coach added. “You’re fighting for survival and redemption.”

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