The day that Rath’s curse began, he fell off The Wall.

He was absolutely convinced that if he had not taken a Monitor dart to the knee just two days before, he could have easily made the leap.

On that day, the Summer Solstice, which also happened to be the day of his High Studies graduation, Rath was already awake at Lhyrgh Dhyse, Second Hour, when the alarm function of his headboard began to chime at the lowest setting.

He gave a slight start, even though for at least thirty minutes he had been awake and watching the seconds creep by, and immediately leapt out of his bunk to silence the alarm. To save time, he had gone to bed fully dressed, including his socks. He did not palm the light switch; he just stood there barely breathing. Now showing 0201, the clock had automatically toggled to maximum brightness the instant it began to chime, but the glowing numerals cast no more than a modest crimson haze across the darkened compartment.

In spite of Rath’s efforts, Pol, on the other side of the compartment in his own bunk, stirred, sat up to stretch in an unhurried fashion, and then reached out to his headboard to bring on the overhead lights. The sudden flare vanquished both Rath’s night vision and his plan to slip away undetected. He had to admit, though, that his chances of getting away without Pol knowing had been slim.

For Rath, looking at his brother was almost like looking at his own reflection. They had the same height (since Rath had grown another three centimeters in the last year), the same medium complexion and hair, and the same wide-shouldered frame, though Pol was stronger by several kilos of muscle built through the daily physical training that all Blade cadets received during their rigorous course of instruction at the Academium. When they had been much younger, strangers had often asked if they were twins.

“You’re an idiot,” Pol pronounced through a yawn, again extending his arms above his head, but this time with a practiced technique that loosened shoulders, elbows, and wrists.

Rath ignored him. They had already had that conversation. Three times.

Pol was twenty-first year cohort, but only sixteen months actually separated their births. He was Rath’s hyaebraedyr, his high-brother-by-blood, in branch terms, but was also his Senior under the hierarchy of their Sept. Both roles gave him the authority, and perhaps the obligation as well, to order Rath to give up his plan.

But Rath knew that Pol would not do that. At a very early age, they had lost their father and then their mother. Rath remembered vividly sitting with Pol at their mother’s Remembrance, surrounded by their Sept but alone and adrift in a sea of heartfelt condolences and quietly expressed grief, and feeling like the only anchor that he had left in the world was his brother. From that moment on, they had depended only on one another, and had formed a bond that had made them far closer than most other siblings were. When one had fallen, the other had raised him up. When one had fought, the other had defended him.

Rath scattered his bedclothes in a semblance of order, snatched his boots from beneath his bunk, and plopped down to pull them on. He rushed to tighten and tie the laces, then jumped to his feet.

From unconscious habit, he gave the tiny space a quick final survey to make sure that he had not forgotten anything. There was just enough space for the two bunks, two adjoining shelving units, and a shared clothes rack. Since they studied, ate, bathed, and socialized in the Clan’s common compartments, they really had no need of more space. This compartment had been his quarters for over a decade. While he had thought of it as huge when he had been ninth-year, he had realized not long ago that it was actually little more than a large closet.

He knew that there was a chance — which he had figured as small — that he would not see it again. For any of a multitude of reasons, it could be that he would not or could not come back from The Stunt. This prospect had never been concerning enough to dissuade him.

Pol made no move to get up. First Formation was at 0800. When he had graduated to Senior Cadet two months ago, he had moved back into his old quarters with Rath. Without the impetus of a Junior Cadet’s regimented schedule, he had made it a rule to never crawl out of bed before 0600.

Pol grimaced. “The Maidens aren’t really nude, you know.”

Rath shifted to his shelving unit and started filling his pockets with the tokens, snacks, tools, matches, and whatnot that he had collected for his expedition. His trousers had cargo pockets, and his shirt had extra pockets as well. Both were made of heavy khaki, a silky Factory synthetic, not the more common natural cotton or wool from the farms. Factory cloth was, certainly in his opinion, superior in all respects; it was rip and stain resistant, flame retardant, and would not absorb water or other liquids — he could stand in a pouring rain and the water would just run off.

“How would you know?” Rath asked his brother, not really bothered, but just being argumentative because bickering with his brother was like breathing. “You never even tried to go.”

“The Stunt is pointless.”

Pol had said that before. Many times. While they looked alike, in many ways, they did not think the same.

“Still going to do it,” Rath replied, giving his standard answer.

Pol ran his hand over the Blade-regulation close-cropped hair on his head. “Just yesterday, I talked to a couple of Seniors who said they had done it. They said that the Maidens wear swimsuits. You won’t see anything more than you can see at the Quartern swimming pool.”

This new claim of first-hand witnesses gave Rath a pause. Specifically witnesses, who, like Pol, were training to become Blade officers. Blade cadets and cadettes were held to the highest academic and ethical standards. Rath had always been told, and mostly believed, that they should automatically be considered nhyaerhye, trustworthy.

“Dhosgyvr?” Rath asked. That Ours title meant something like Proven Seniors.

Pol chuckled. “Well, no, actually.”

Rath snorted and headed for the door.

“Wrathghyur,” Pol said, using his full formal name for emphasis, “Grandmother will Rage.”

Rath knew that to be true; the punishments could be Catastrophic, Cat-level in the vernacular of his cohort.

“She hasn’t killed me yet,” Rath told his brother as he moved to the door and palmed the lock pad beside it.

Pol sighed and shrugged. “If anyone asks me directly, I’ll have to tell them where you’ve gone.”

“Just make sure that you don’t go to breakfast until the very last minute,” Rath said with a grin as he slipped out the door.

He entirely agreed with Pol: Grandmother would Rage. In Rath’s honor, she had declared a fête with a feast, dancing, games, and everything. The last time she had Raged, it had taken six hulking Blades to pin her down.

But he had known that a year ago when he had made up his mind to do The Stunt.

While an attempt to spy upon the maidens of the Monitor Nation as they bathed in the sacred waters of the Sylvan Pools broke no official statute, regulation, or rule of the Custodian Nation, the crime of trespass into the territory of the Monitor Nation was routinely and publicly lambasted as a heinous offense. This act violated thirteen laws of the Custodian Nation, a half-dozen Level ordinances, innumerable Sixth Section regulations, probably all of the Treaties between the Nations, and — the worst part as far as Rath was concerned — the express general orders of multiple generations of Elders of his Sept, including nearly all of Rath’s closer Aunts and Uncles.

Not to mention Grandmother.

But The Stunt was something that every nineteenth-year lad living in The Wall talked about, even if most of them never did more than whisper about it when no Senior or educator was present.

In Common, the language that Rath thought in because it was the language of The Index and therefore the everyday language of the Custodian Nation, which he spoke everywhere but at Remembrance or with certain Elders or at official Clan functions, The Stunt was a “rite of passage.” Or so some anonymous monographs that he had found in the Stacks had said. Grandmother, who invariably insisted upon only speaking the pre-Refuge language — Ours — at home, had once within his hearing referred to the deed as a dhrythy skcyge, which meant, more or less, soul searing journey.

At school, all the lads had just called it The Stunt.

All the maids at school had just called it stupid.

For Rath, there was no alternative. The Monitor Nation festival of maturity — their Day of Light — and High Studies graduation, the event each year that marked the beginning of a cohort’s twentieth-year and their transition to accountability and adulthood, were always on the exact same day — the Summer Solstice.

For The Stunt, it was today or never.

In the corridor, the night-dimmed autolights brightened when the fixtures detected Rath’s motion, showing him his blurry reflection in the glossy pearl-white panels of the opposite wall. Without pause, he went right and cat-footed across the low-pile mauve carpet to the first intersection, and then went right again. His and Pol’s quarters were five corridors away from the central common compartments and, more importantly, Grandmother’s quarters, so there was little chance that he might be discovered by another early riser. Nevertheless, he moved quickly and as quietly as possible towards the East Chamber Exit. This entire Chamber was held by his Sept, but many of the westernmost compartments were not currently occupied. When he reached this disused area, he abandoned all efforts at stealth and ran along the central corridor at full speed, with the carpet-muffled sounds of his bootsteps echoing behind him.

The eastbound platform of the transverse South Line was no more than half a kilometer from Rath’s quarters. An Express would stop there at 0230, but only if The Index’s passive monitoring system registered a ticket holder waiting on the platform. He had only fifteen minutes left to get there.

When he reached the East Chamber Exit, he did not slow. The huge door was blocked open, as usual, and he simply dashed straight through, crossing the low threshold without attempting the customary bow to the half-asleep watchman, his elder cousin Yhraet. Cousin Yhraet was the sort who would wonder at Rath’s haste, dismiss it as youthful excess, and nod off again.

Beyond, the wide crosswise passage was empty as well, and he went left. He disregarded the dark Exits of the Chambers along the opposite side of the passage; all of these were unoccupied or reserved for storage. When the passage reached the South Boulevard, which was normally deserted at this hour, he made a right and broke into a sprint.

For more than a year, he had been getting up early every other day for a five-kilometer training circuit along the Boulevard and about the lanes and passages in this area of the Quartern. He had made a habit of varying his route and greeting anyone that he encountered with a passing wave. The sight of him running at this hour should not strike anyone as unusual.

Before 0800, the lighting along the Boulevard was also motion-activated, causing the fixtures to brighten and then dim again as he sped along, marking his exact progress as he rushed by the benches, reading tables, and shuttered kiosks that crowded the central median. This easily noticed trace might have bothered him if there were any Blades about, but their first regular patrols did not begin until the Start Hour of The Index day, 0600.

He reached the shuttle platform in under five minutes, not out of breath or sweating excessively. Registering this only as a step, not as an accomplishment, he slowed so as not to startle the cleaners polishing and washing the external ornaments and artwork that citizens had placed on and against the barrier railing. He did pause here for the moment necessary to give the two chatting older women, his Seniors but not familiar ones that might know him, the briefest of bows, and then went straight through the motion-controlled entrance gate and up the low ramp.

An immediate right brought him to the freestanding ticket dispenser. With hands that had a jittery tremble, he fed twenty-four of his carefully hoarded orange tokens into the dispenser, throttling his urge to rush and only inserting the next after the acknowledgment tone for the previous. As soon as the screen showed his total as 240 Patron Units, he rapidly and with familiar expertise tapped the screen to scroll through menus until he could select Express-East End/First Section (EOL). He finally relaxed only when he had snatched up the printed Synthetic ticket that popped out.

An express trip to the First Section shuttle station at East End from his home in Sixth Section cost as much as three standard long-distance fares to any nearby occupied Section. It had taken him a whole year, with a final begged subsidy from Pol, to save enough tokens. His Tier One Allotment did not actually cover his daily living expenses when costs like laundry dues, incidentals like shampoo, and meals away from home were included, and he had had to economize drastically. This had included extra walking to forego many short-haul shuttle fares, doing without innumerable kiosk snacks, and avoiding all sundry expenses which were not absolutely necessary.

Letting loose a short growl of triumph, he turned about and went to stand before the center set of the automated doors that separated the platform from the interior of the shuttle tube. The low-pressure tube housed twin power rails that could deliver a fatal shock; the doors would only open when a shuttle was docked.

He noticed that his pulse was rapid. That had to be from the run, but he could not deny that he was more keyed up than he wanted to be. Flexing the fingers of both hands, he took long, regulated breaths until he felt his pulse slow to near normal.

He had the long, but narrow passenger platform to himself, of course.

He knew that a lot of agricultural workers got up this early to go to the Outside. Though some people actually lived in the Outside in the settlements that were strung along the overland shuttle lines that served the plantations, orchards, and farms of the floodplain north of The Wall for many hundreds of kilometers, the vast majority of Outside workers commuted daily. From Rath’s observations, these commuters always took crosswise shuttles to the banks of Express lifts on North Boulevard and thence to the exterior Exits at Ground Level. Blades, Section officials, maintenance techs, and housekeeping crews who had early shifts usually all lived in the Quartern to which they were assigned and just walked to work. Craftsmen, or at least all the ones that Rath knew, had workshops in or very close to their quarters. All in all, shuttle traffic was normally entirely predictable.

As far as other lads from his own Quartern sneaking away to attempt The Stunt, Rath did not expect to encounter anyone. Of the half dozen or so local Southeast Quartern lads who had been close enough friends of his to be nhyaerlld and with whom he had actually discussed The Stunt, he knew that none of them had ever had any serious intention to go through with it.

Only a week ago, one of his oldest childhood friends, Dhyae, whom he had known from the very first day of Low Studies, had gripped his hand and sworn to meet him at the shuttle platform, but Rath had just smiled and nodded. Dhy had a widowed mother and four dependent younger siblings; the family managed only with their daily Allotments and meager assistance from their Sept. It had always been Dhy’s goal to earn employment with the Section Administration in order to lift his family out of poverty. Such employment would be impossible with any sort of Cat-level blemish on his record. Were Dhy to manage to get all the way to the Sylvan Pools and then somehow get caught, either by the Blades or — much worse — the Shields of the Monitor Nation, the fines, costs, and compensation payments, if levied in full, might push his entire Sept into bankruptcy.

Rath had known and accepted that the prospect of such a Catastrophic outcome would cause his friend’s courage to fail at the final hour.

That crushing financial punishment could potentially fall on Rath as well, but according to a search of The Index, within the last thirty years there was no record of anyone receiving statutory punishment for The Stunt. There was also absolutely no record of anyone actually succeeding in the adventure either, but that was much easier to sanitize from Section records. He had come to the conclusion, like many of his peers, that the Blades and the various Section officials just pretended that such incidents never occurred.

And, of course, it was common knowledge that most of the lads never even got close to the Pools. Those laggards were swept up by the Blades before they could set a single foot outside The Wall, and thus had never actually gotten close to transgressing into Monitor Nation territory. Publicly shamed and automatically fined a not inconsequential but moderate amount for minor, unspecified violations of Dra Wrydll dyr Lher, they were escorted to their home Chambers and surrendered to the disapproval of their Elders.

Regardless, above all else, if Rath did make it all the way to Monitor Nation territory, his plan was to simply not get caught.

The Express arrived, decelerating, and came to a smooth stop. After the seals were made, the doors in front of Rath whisked aside, and he darted into the car.

All Express routes had but a single extended car. This one had a full complement of commuter seats in the forwards section, but the rear was marked No Seating and only had hand straps hanging down from the overhead and hand rails along the walls. Older couples with children and larger extended family groups occupied most of the commuter seats. No doubt all the seated passengers were bound to the balconies at East End to see the Solstice Sunsrise. Rath had done that a few times in Low Studies. The dual thrill of being Outside and the sight of the two suns rising at the exact same moment as their blended light sent waves of color across the sky had been amazing, but only the first time.

In the rear section of the car, about ten or twelve nineteenth-year lads were standing in a careful arrangement where no two were within conversational distance. All exuded studied, but frankly unconvincing, nonchalance. All, like Rath, were wearing sturdy boots and clothing suitable for an overland journey. A few showed signs of nervous energy — darting eyes, slightly agitated shifting from one foot to the other, tense arms and shoulders. None made eye contact with Rath as he took a firm grip on a vacant hand strap and pivoted to face forwards.

Suppressing a grin, he likewise made an effort to exude the same camouflaging nonchalance.

For good or ill, he was on his way.