Chapter 7

Of the six types of pipers, perhaps the rarest is the chaos one. Born once every couple of centuries, knowledge is often lost before another is born. As such, many ceremonies do not even bother with lighting the chaos bowl, leaving it cold and empty. After all, the majority of pipers will never be chaos. . .

-A History of Pipers; A.A. Wesen

I'm at the cliff hours before everyone else. I spend the time meditating at the base of it, asking the statue we have no name for to give me the strength needed. Thanks to Giselle, I have enough food in my stomach and will be strong enough to complete my climb. My calves no longer have splints, but they ache with the coming of the winter despite it being over a month away still. The first snow will be brutal on my bones, but if I can get my pipe, things will get easier. I have to believe that.

I watch as the five bowls are lit, the sixth remaining empty. It's the way of things. Chaos pipers are such a rarity that no one bothers with lighting it anymore, and I know I won't be that. I'll be lucky if I'm an eros piper like mother, or even a botanical one. I'll take anything as long as it's not a comedy piper.

Why do they not light all the bowls?Giselle asks.

"Chaos pipers haven't been born in centuries," I explain. "No one knows anything about them, so there's no use lighting the bowl."

What if you're a chaos piper?

I laugh. "I won't be, Giselle. I don't have the profile for it."

How do you know? If the information is lost?"

"I just do," I murmur. "I'd feel it, I think."

She studies me but doesn't argue further. Townspeople begin to show up just as the sun begins to rise, not for support, but to see. After all, this is the true test, to finally find what it is that I am. The runt of the Bonaventures. This is as important an event as Finnian's challenge was, just for different reasons.

I almost don't expect my family to show up, but when Mother comes strolling up the hill with Finley in tow, I can't help but smile gratefully. Neither one of them return the look, each as cold as stone, but I can see it in their eyes. Mother holds the harp in her hand, the one I'm meant to stroke to announce the climb. I can't start until the sun is at a specific position in the sky, and then I'll stroke the harp and begin my climb.

As I suspected, I can see additional items jammed into the stone. I'll likely be stabbed and hurt this climb, but I've prepared as best as I could. Even with broken legs, I'd worked on my arm strength, knowing that my grip and arms are my greatest asset. That and my lower weight. I don't have nearly as much to hold up as Finnian had with his brute strength.

When the sun reaches the right position, I look around forlornly for Father and Finnian. Neither are present, and I sigh. I should have expected it, but before I can stroke the harp strings, Finnian appears over the hill, and I can't stop my heart from jumping. He comes alone, however. I see no one else crest the hill.

"Where's Father?" I ask as he comes closer. He always comes to the challenges. If we can count on anything, it's that.

"Busy," Finnian answers, and a flash of pity flickers in his eyes despite our tumultuous relationship when my face falls. "Begin your climb, Fenwick."

I look down at the ground. Father hadn't even bothered to show up. He doesn't even care to see if he's wrong or not. It doesn't matter if I complete the challenge or die on these rocks. I could be a war piper and it would never be enough.

Play the harp, Fenwick, Giselle says from my pocket. For me.

But my eyes begin to mist. None of this matters. He didn't even bother to come.

When a hand lands on my arm, I jerk in surprise. I blink my tears away when I find that hand attached to my mother. Her face has lost its mask briefly, and both my siblings stare at her with surprise. Mother looks down at me, her eyes flickering as if she can't quite remember how to show her emotions.

"We're here," she says, and it's the only thing she says. She doesn't tell me she believes in me. She doesn't tell me she loves me. She just tells me that she's here, that Finely and Finnian are, despite the shame I carry. And it's enough.

Somehow, it's fucking enough.

I roll my shoulders and nod, blinking my tears away before I stroke my fingers across the harp and turn back to the cliff. The music of the strings echoes around me, the magic of it filtering through the air. I don't know what it does, but it must do something because I suddenly feel better about the climb.

I step up to the edge and look back once. Father never appears. The rest of my family watches me with solemn faces. So I take a deep breath and begin the climb.

At first, each handhold is easy. My legs immediately ache, the bones barely mended. One wrong move and I could cripple myself again, but I continue to push myself higher, careful not to put too much pressure on my legs if I don't have to.

You're favoring your arms. Good, Giselle says from my pocket. Take your time, Fenwick. We have all day.

The climb is meant to be difficult, but I feel as if it's been made near impossible as I continue to climb. Too many stones have been loosened, making them come free treacherously as I climb. A few times, I barely catch myself. Only the strength of my grip saves me. The townspeople all settle in to watch, sitting on the ground. Only my family remains standing, their eyes on me, silent. Every so often, I glance down to see if Father comes, only to be disappointed each time.

At the halfway mark, I reach up to another ledge and find the first trap. The sharp bite of metal makes me cry out and draw my hand back to find it bloody. It's not deep, but it's a wound that will worsen as I climb. The more pressure I put upon it, the deeper the hole will tear.

Be wary, Giselle murmurs. I feel malice here.

Which means whoever set these traps wanted me to fail.

"I can't see them," I pant. "I'm going to die if I place my hand in a bad trap."

Giselle scurries out of my pocket and up my arm. Then allow me to be your eyes, Fenwick. I can help with that.

She climbs the rockface without trouble and at the ledge, she peers over. There is only a single metal spike in the center. Grab slightly to the left or right.

I do as she says and pull myself up, pleased to find she'd been correct. We continue that way, avoiding traps with placements meant to drop me from the cliff. No one shouts anything at me. No one offers words of encouragement. No one other than Giselle.

The sun is the only indication of time as I finally reach the top and pull myself over. It took longer than Finley, but I'd had to avoid certain areas entirely when the traps were too intricate or unyielding. I can blame Finnian later for his brutal cruelty, but for now, I drag myself onto the top of the cliff nearly out of breath. I take too long to stand and face the bowls. Someone shouts from below for me to hurry up. Another says they don't have all day. None of the voices are my family.

You've got this, Fenwick. Stand up.

So I do. I drag myself to my feet with the last bit of strength I hold and face the five lit bowls. They're made of stone, carved right into the cliff itself. No one knows how old they are or who exactly carved them. Some believe they were created by the gods. Others believe they've just always been here despite the clear carved marks along the sides. I don't really care where they come from. I only care about what they can give me.

With shaking limbs and a thunderous heart, I approach the war bowl first, knowing the flame will go out. I am not my father. I am not Finnian. Still, I need to know. The chaos bowl remains empty to my left, but the war bowl flickers with bright green flames that'll turn blue if I'm chosen.

Go on, Giselle encourages. I'm right here.

I pat my pocket and take a deep breath. This is it. This is where I'll know. I reach out a shaking hand and hover it over the flame. It doesn't burn me. If anything, the flame is cold. The flames dance for one second, two, and then sputter out, just as I expected.

Someone down below laughs and says, "not surprising." The bastard.

I move over to the greed bowl and reach out my hand. The flames sputter and go out instantly. Someone groans and I wince, uncertainty spreading into my soul. I glance down at the comedy bowl, the last one in line, with a wince.

"Please give me anything but comedy," I pray to whatever god listens to pipers. "Anything but comedy."

I step in front of the eros bowl, the one my mother once stood before. I could be like her. I could be an eros piper. I reach my hand out, and the flame goes out before I can even touch it. My heart throbs painfully in my chest as I stare at the empty bowl and move over to the botanical bowl. It's not the strongest piper but not the weakest. It would be better than comedy. I stare at the green flames before reaching out my hand. One second, two, three, four. The flames go out. I stare at the last bowl in horror, my whole body quaking now.

"Called it!" Someone shouts below. "Put your hand in, joker!"

"Tell us a joke!" another laughs.

I close my eyes against the tears as I move over to the final bowl. When I'm certain I won't cry, I blink them back open and stare at the flames. I hesitate, not wanting to know and yet needing to at the same time.

You are still you, Giselle says. No matter the outcome.

"I wish I truly believed that," I croak.

With slow movements, I thread my hand into the fire, letting the coolness of them soak into my skin. I wait for the flames to rise, to envelope me. I stand there for ten seconds, my hand in the fire, before the flames sputter.

My eyes widen. "No. No, no, no."

The flames sputter again.

They go out.

My hand hovers in empty air, above the empty comedy bowl. I stare at it, at the emptiness, and realize the horror of what I truly am.

Not a war piper, or a greed one. I'm not an eros, or botanical. I'm not even comedy.

I'm not a piper, at all.

I glance down at the ground to see my siblings walking away, their backs to me, not bothering to watch my descent. I'm not a piper. I'm not a Bonaventure. I'll never be one again. Only mother stands there looking up at me as the townspeople laugh, as they make jokes about my fate. With sad eyes, she presses her hand to her heart and bows her head.

That's all I get, before she turns her back to me and follows Finley and Finnian.

I sit on the top of the cliff, horror filling me.

I'd asked for anything but comedy, but this isn't what I meant.

You're still Fenwick.

But I'm not a piper. I'm not a piper. I'm not a piper.

The first Bonaventure to not be a piper, at all.

I guess my father was right. I'll bring shame to our family one way or another. . .