The Perfect Tear (Tsera's Gift #1) by Connie Lansberg

Edited by Rebecca Rue & Lana King

the perfect tear Copyright Š 2020 Connie Lansberg All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please write to the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by BHC Press Library of Congress Control Number: 2020934435 ISBN: 978-1-64397-154-4 (Hardcover) ISBN: 978-1-64397-155-1 (Softcover) ISBN: 978-1-64397-156-8 (Ebook) For information, write: BHC Press 885 Penniman #5505 Plymouth, MI 48170

Visit the publisher: www.bhcpress.com

the perfect tear

one

M

aria trudged through the dense forest wishing her swollen feet did not ache so. This was her favorite season. The air was sharp, and the tingling smell of pine drifted through the trees and settled on the back of her throat in a refreshing way. In the wild orchard on the north side of the village, the last of the apples gave off a drunken scent that made her think of pie and warm milk fresh from the cow. The sparrows’ song flooded her ears. They sang to protect their territory, and Maria was glad knowing the woods would be filled with nests come spring.

She stopped and pushed her fist into the small of her back. The throbbing made each step an effort, and the potatoes she’d gathered earlier weighed heavily on her arm. She shifted the basket and sighed.

She would be forty-five soon, but she’d always thought of herself as a strong, fit woman. She had spent her life outside, in the fresh air, cultivating her herb garden and scouring the forest for medicinal plants.

She helped Charles by gathering the cut wood, and she kept the small cottage spotless, scrubbing the floors most days. The exhaustion she’d experienced lately was unusual. Maria ran her hand over her stomach and sighed. Her girlhood was far behind her.

A sudden snap in the undergrowth startled her, and she threw the hood of her cloak over her head and held it close to her chin. A fox, coat healthy, eyes curious, trotted past. Maria’s shoulders slumped, and she pulled the hood away from her face, brushing some loose

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strands from her forehead. Her fingers touched the ornate comb that bound her hair. The rich ornament was at odds with her rough wool dress and cloak, and Maria was always careful to conceal it if she ever came across anyone from the nearby village. She had no way of proving she was the rightful owner of such a grand object.

She squinted through the branches and frowned. The shallow tilt of the sunlight through the pines told her the morning was long gone.

Maria quickened her step, but her foot caught a stone hidden by fallen leaves and she stumbled, spilling the contents of her basket.

The potatoes surrounded her, forming a crooked circle. She felt lightheaded, and tears sprang to her eyes. Her stomach had been queasy all morning, but she’d been confident her walk through the forest, and the fresh air, would set her right.

Maria wiped her face with her apron and threw a guilty glance over her shoulder. There was no one to see her, no one to berate her laziness if she decided to rest, but the notion that Charles might arrive home to find his midday meal still in the pot pushed the idea from her mind. He’d risen early to help Tom Blacksmith build an extra room for his ever-growing number of children.

Thinking of Charles opened the door to welcome memories, and she happily walked through. Charles had been the most handsome lad in the small village where they grew up. More importantly, he was kind to the younger children, including the girls, and ordered the older boys to let them join their games. Her father had died when she was a baby, and she had no brothers. Charles called on her mother often to offer his help and chop wood for them. Maria was confident he did not do it just for the reward of an apple pie or fresh eggs. Soon his visits included staying for supper and spending cold nights by the fire.

Her mother gave them a small measure of privacy by pretending to be asleep in the chair closest to the flames, but one night, when Charles first kissed her, she saw a shadow of a smile cross her mother’s face.

A burst of wind rattled the trees and Maria sighed. Daydreaming was not going to prepare the midday meal. She stared at the

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scattered potatoes. They weighed on her arm, and she had several miles still before her. Would it be so sad to leave them behind? Yes, you silly fool. Food was a precious gift from the earth. She would not waste it.

Her knees protested as she lowered herself to the ground, a small groan escaping her lips. The branch above her head shook, and Maria’s focus was drawn to a somber rook. “Hello, my fine friend. Don’t just sit there. Come and help me.”

The rook cawed and flapped its wings. Several other large birds joined it, and Maria sat back on her heels as the birds descended and grabbed a potato each in their claws. She laughed aloud as they proceeded to return the escapees to the basket. When the last potato was in place, the rooks lifted and were gone. Maria’s gaze followed their flight through the trees until the filtered sunlight washed them from view.

With her basket full again, she set off for home. A sudden pain stabbed her side. She gasped, and her step faltered once more. She forced air into her lungs and kept walking. She needed to get home—now.

Charles crashed through the undergrowth, clutching the plump fowl he’d caught in his trap—Maria would be so pleased.

She had a use for each part of the bird and would finally have enough feathers for a new bed pillow. She would grind the dried bones for some potion or other. His mouth watered at the thought of the excellent meal she would prepare. She had surpassed her mother’s skill as a cook with her knowledge of herbs, and he felt himself to be a fortunate man. He grinned and stepped up his pace.

Charles moved into the clearing and stopped. No smoke rose from the chimney attached to the stonework cottage he had built with his own hands. The fireplace warmed the main room and Maria kept it lit as the days grew short. His gut twisted into a knot and his jaw

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clenched. He sprinted to the house and flung open the door. A basket lay on the floor, potatoes scattered across the room. “Maria?”

A soft moan, like a tendril of smoke, drifted from the bedroom.

Charles spun on his heel and in four steps was by her side. Maria’s body jerked, and she clutched her belly, pain etched on her face. He dropped to his knees beside the bed and gripped her hand. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Gray tinged her skin and beads of sweat glistened on her forehead.

Her hands felt icy. Maria shook her head and moaned again. Charles stood, reeling, his breath coming in short bursts. Maria had never been ill a day in her life. She was the healer in their home, not him.

His frantic gaze rested on the jug by the bed, and he grabbed it.

“I’m going to fetch some water. I’ll be right back.”

He checked the large bowl sitting on the sideboard in the main room for insects before filling the small vessel and rushing back to Maria’s side.

He held her head and encouraged her to take several sips before setting the container on the small bedside table. Maria slumped onto the feather pillow, her complexion tinged with yellow like spoiled cream.

“Fetch Master Fretwell.”

Charles stood rooted to the spot.

Maria tried to smile, but her face twisted in pain. “Please, Charles, go now.”

Daisy wasn’t used to being ridden, and it took a mile or two of disgruntled snorts before she settled into a steady trot. Charles resigned himself to the measured pace for he couldn’t be sure the carthorse would last long at full gallop.

He rubbed the tightness at the base of his neck. Daisy was a sturdy animal, but she was getting on in years, as was he. The village was an hour by cart, and he couldn’t afford the animal breaking

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down. Maria’s life was at stake. Panic churned in the pit of his stomach, and his mind kept returning to the sight of Maria curled into a ball. Was she going to die?

He stifled a sob and shook his head as if to dislodge the question from his mind. The forest through which he rode was much like the one that surrounded the sleepy village where he had spent his boyhood. They’d grown up in the same hamlet and had been friends since they were children.

Maria had been a quiet but determined child, and the passing years had not changed her. She was smart and resourceful, and he considered himself a lucky man that she had chosen him out of half a dozen suitors. She was still generous with her smiles and her love.

What would he do without her?

The reins cut into his palms. He rubbed Daisy’s neck and whispered in her ear. “I’m sorry girl, but we have to hurry. It’s midday, and we still have a way to go.” He kicked her into a gallop and prayed they would make it in time.

Charles and Daisy arrived, sweaty and panting, to find Master Fretwell “unavailable.” The doctor’s wife had opened the door, eyeing Charles with suspicion, and without preamble spat out the word. She was a plain woman with weasel-like features that grew sharper when she frowned. She attempted to slam the door, but Charles pushed back and stepped inside. The woman scurried behind the table and grabbed a poker.

“Wait, please.” It came out as a bellow, but he held up both hands, spreading his fingers to mollify the panicked woman. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

Mrs. Fretwell pursed her lips and lowered the sharp instrument but did not release it.

A low growl emerged from the back of Charles’s throat then erupted. “My wife is ill. I can’t help her. I need Master Fretwell to come.”

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Mrs. Fretwell raised the poker again and made fruitless jabs above her head. “Don’t you step no closer or I’ll…” Jab. Jab. Charles groaned and dug into his pockets. He pulled out a small sack. “I can pay.” He tossed the bag of coins on the table that stood between them. It landed with a dull thud.

Mrs. Fretwell’s beady eyes narrowed, and she took a jab at the bag. It made a clinking noise, and Charles forced himself to relax his shoulders to calm the woman. “I’m Charles Woodman. Maria is my wife.” He tried to keep his voice from shaking.

The woman looked at him sharply. “She supplies herbs to my husband?”

Charles wiped the sweat pouring from his forehead, then offered her his palm. “He did a fine job at stitching my hand after the axe slipped.” He flexed it for her. “It works perfectly.”

A look of what could have been pride flickered across her pointy face, and she nodded. “I’ll send my husband as soon as I can.”

Tears of relief threatened his composure, and Charles bowed his head. “Thank you. I must get back to my wife.”

“Wait.” Mrs. Fretwell opened a cupboard and pulled from it a linen satchel. “This will help with the pain until my husband gets there. Boil water and steep a pinch of the poppy resin in a cup, like tea. Make her drink it all whether she wants to or not. It will dull her pain and give her sweet dreams.”

Charles took the pouch and lodged it safely in his pocket. He gave her a shaky smile. The doctor’s wife didn’t return his smile but a measure of sympathy softened her features, and for an instant, she looked a little less rodent-like.

Charles threw another log onto the fire then collapsed into a chair. The moon had risen an hour ago, but the doctor had not yet arrived. Maria had fallen into a fitful sleep after drinking the potion from Mrs. Fretwell. He glanced at the line of little bags on a shelf

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above the fireplace. Maria most likely had all the ingredients but was unable to tell him how to prepare it. He was grateful she was asleep.

A bitter taste flooded his mouth, and he spat into the fire to be rid of it. He let his fingers caress the rough wooden table at which he sat. He’d worked hard to make it level for Maria. He was not a man of graceful words, but he knew how to make his wife happy.

A sharp rap echoed from the door, and Charles started. He jumped to his feet, upsetting the chair, but he didn’t stop to right it.

He pulled at the door, nearly dislocating the latch. The night air invaded the stuffy cottage, and the sting of it forced Charles to take a deep breath.

Master Fretwell stood in the doorway rubbing his bloodshot eyes. He was plump with a large nose and white whiskers that wiggled about underneath like a friendly mouse. Where his wife’s features were mean and pointy, his were soft and furry.

“Are you going to let me in or shall I just stay here and freeze to death?”

Charles flushed and resisted the urge to grab the man by the scruff of his neck and march him into the bedroom where his wife lay so ill. Instead, he stepped back and waved the man inside.

Master Fretwell removed his hat to reveal a full head of white hair. It flew around his head like wispy flames, and when he bowed his head, his hair remained upright. “Forgive me for taking so long.

I’ve been to the abbey.” He spoke in a cheerful but weary voice, and when he drew air through his prodigious nose, that air wheezed and squeaked. “Mother Superior had an emergency. The children in her care fell ill with the measles.” He gave Charles a wry smile and struggled out of his coat. “Her penny-pinching ways are legendary in these parts, so for her to call me out, well, I knew she was in over her head.”

Charles grunted and watched Master Fretwell roll his sleeves in leisurely but precise movements. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”

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Maria’s scream spun Charles around, and he clutched Master Fretwell’s arm. “My wife.” The words flayed the soft tissue of his throat, making it hard to speak. “She’s getting worse.”

Charles struggled to control the shaking in his legs as he followed Master Fretwell into the small bedroom. The doctor set his bag on the floor next to the bed and leaned in. Maria’s lids squeezed shut, and another strangled moan pushed its way out of her contorted mouth.

The doctor placed his hand first on her warm forehead and then on her stomach, and his eyes widened. He repeated the sequence, then wheezed through his nose. Charles stepped to the side of the bed and peered over the doctor’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong with her?” Master Fretwell straightened, his whiskers twitching. Weasels eat mice, Charles thought to himself, and then he shook his head to be rid of such nonsense. His wife needed him alert and ready.

The doctor patted Charles on the back and took Maria’s hand.

“You’re not sick, my dear. You’re having a baby.”

Charles stared at Maria, mouth agape. Master Fretwell pulled at the bedclothes. “You’re in labor, my dear.” His voice was soothing. “I need you to do as I say. I estimate you’re in your seventh month, and the baby is small.”

Maria shook her head. “Are you sure?” Her voice was weak.

Master Fretwell smiled warmly. “I’m positive.”

“I didn’t know. How could I not know?”

The doctor squeezed her hand. “It’s unusual at your age, but I have come across it before. Now, Maria, I want you to breathe as slowly as you can. Don’t be afraid.” He felt her stomach again and frowned. “Baby is around the wrong way. I’m going to see if I can turn it.”

The fog of dismay and joy surrounding Charles lifted, and he stepped forward. “Tom Blacksmith’s cow came out back to front, and both died of it.”

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Master Fretwell’s glance was sharp, and although he was a full head shorter than Charles, his grip was firm. He pulled Charles aside and lowered his voice.

“Calm yourself, man,” Master Fretwell said. “Your wife needs you to keep your wits about you. If you show fear, she will be fearful. Not good for her or the baby. Now, do you have vinegar? I need to wash my hands.”

Charles rushed to the other room and grabbed a bowl, a cloth, and the jug that contained the apple cider vinegar Maria had made last week. He had thought it odd when Maria had schooled him in the habit of washing his hands in the stuff, but she had been right.

Neither of them suffered from infirm bowels or colds and fevers. On wobbly legs, he returned and poured the vinegar into the bowl, handing Master Fretwell the cloth to dry his hands.

“Thank you. Now, sit yourself next to your wife and whisper soothing words to her because this is going to hurt.”

Charles gripped Maria’s hand as the doctor manipulated her swollen belly. He gritted his teeth each time she cried out and tried not to let his confusion and hope show on his face. He did not wish to distract her from the task her exhausted body was being asked to handle.

Master Fretwell grunted and stepped back. “Well done my dear.

Have some water and rest a minute.”

Maria managed a few sips, and Charles wet the cloth set aside by the doctor with the rest. He placed it on her forehead. Her skin was hot and dry, like his throat, and Charles marveled at her strength.

She’d been in labor since morning. He whispered, “Soon—this will be over soon.”

“One more Maria, just one more push,” Master Fretwell said. His voice was calm, but his eyebrows were drawn close. Charles stared at him for clues, but the doctor remained focused on his patient.

Maria used the last of her strength to bear down. Charles jumped to his feet and gaped as the baby crowned in a rush. Master Fretwell

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gave an expert pull, and the baby was out. He covered the tiny blue infant in a blanket and patted its bottom. The doctor seemed to be moving in slow motion as Maria gulped air. Her hand flew to her mouth, and Charles wanted to go to her but his feet refused to move—his lungs refused to open. Charles prayed, willing the baby to join their lives.

The room dissolved in a flash of hot white light, and the sound of stars singing filled his ears. Charles covered his faced, blinded. When he was again able to focus, he stared out the window for the source.

The moon hung high and cold in the night sky, quiet and disdainful of the earthly proceedings far below. But spinning outside the window was a small star, hovering and singing quietly. It pulsed and glowed, and when Charles blinked, it was gone. His tired eyes were playing tricks on him.

The baby’s cry was weak, but his prayers had been answered.

Master Fretwell rubbed the infant with a blanket, and the blue tinge of its skin faded to pale pink.

Master Fretwell grinned, his cheeks as pink as the baby’s. “It’s a girl.”

He handed her to Charles. Charles stared at the bundle in his arms and brushed his lips against her forehead. He couldn’t control the grin pulling at his lips and knew he must look like a simpleton, but he didn’t care. “She’s as tiny as a newborn piglet and twice as lovely.”

He settled the infant on Maria’s chest and stepped back to watch his wife caress each finger and toe. She stroked the baby’s ears and sighed. The smile on Maria’s face held a joy he had not seen before.

“She’s so utterly perfect.”

Maria’s words floated in the air, and Charles’s skin tingled at the memory of the baby’s silky skin. He couldn’t recall ever being this happy. He wanted to sing and do a jig and drink cider.

The doctor motioned Charles aside. “I’m afraid the baby is what we call premature.”

“I don’t understand?” Charles steeled himself against the doctor’s next statement.

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“What you might call a runt.”

The words hit him like a slap, and Charles stepped back, giving the doctor a savage glare. “That’s my daughter.”

Master Fretwell winced. “Yes, of course, but I need to prepare you. She’s a little…”—Master Fretwell had to search for the words—“… underdone, so to speak. I can’t promise she’ll last the night.” He spoke with undisguised sympathy.

“I’ve raised pigs since I was a boy. There have been many runts, but I’ve not lost a single piglet yet.” Charles relaxed his glare a little.

The doctor nodded and returned to Maria. “You’re tired, but you must feed the baby on the hour. Charles, keep them both warm. If she makes it through the next few days…”

Maria’s hand flew to her mouth and tears shimmered in her eyes.

Charles knelt by the bed and took Maria’s hand. “I have longed for a child always. This is our daughter. I promise you she will not only live, she will thrive.”

Maria nodded.

Charles shook Master Fretwell’s hand as if he meant never to let it go. “I’ll deliver a full cart of firewood to your door in the next week.”

“I’ll visit again soon to see how all three of you are getting on.”

Master Fretwell bowed and pulled his hand from Charles grip, then shut the bedroom door behind him.

Maria stroked the face of her newborn. “I’d given up years ago on the promise I made to you.”

Charles kissed her cheek. “You promised me a daughter, and here she is.”

“She has your nose,” Maria said. She nuzzled a tiny hand and gazed at Charles.

Charles’s love for Maria was like the blood flowing through his veins. It kept his heart beating. It had grown from a seed into something robust and sustaining. What he now felt for this helpless creature was immediate and terrifying and remarkable. He was drowning in it.

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Charles took her hand again and steadied his breath. “Did you see the little star? Outside the window just before she cried?”

Maria wasn’t listening. “I’d like to call her Eleanor. Do you like it?”

Charles nodded, and the sight before him caused the strange vision to fade from his mind.

Maria gazed at him and didn’t bother to wipe the tears that washed her glowing cheeks. “It means light.”

two

T

he lights from the city’s largest landing pad animated the night sky. Orbs came and went from the city station in a flawless ballet of near misses, and the spheroid vehicles resembled bright little stars. Their heightened activity turned the dark sky into a riot of light and sound, generated by the many visitors arriving for tonight’s announcement. Lerion allowed himself a few minutes to take in the performance, but the steep angle of the dual pink moons told him he would be late if he didn’t quicken his step. The last of his fellow novices had left the dorm fifteen minutes earlier, which meant they would already be at the Apotheose.

Lerion was tall with eyes the color of emeralds. He had a build worthy of great physical pursuits, but such contests, popular with his classmates, did not interest him. His passion lay in the manipulation of matter and the development of complex frequencies.

Lerion hurried along the gem-encrusted path leading to the city center. He refused to let the impressive dwellings, hewn from crystals rising thousands of feet into the sky, distract him. He knew from his history lessons this imposing outcrop was the result of an ancient trauma to his world, the fifth planet in the second universe. He often wandered through the maze of majestic formations mulling over new ideas, and at any other time he would have allowed their sacred energy to move through him, but tonight, he needed to keep his wits about him.

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Lerion kept up his pace until the Apotheose came into view. The inverted double tetrahedron dominated the city center. Its crystalline outer shell, translucent during the day, now blushed in the light of the moons. One tip rested on the ground while its opposite point reached into the atmosphere. It had no visible means of support, and his people considered it to be a masterpiece of invention by the Ancient Ones.

The broad steps of the Apotheose abounded with animated novices. Lerion pressed his shoulders back and took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the nods and waves of his friends. They came, as he did, to learn the result of their creative endeavors, but their eager chatter set his teeth on edge, and he blocked out the sound. His life was about to change, and he wanted to be ready.

“This is it. Hey, Lerion.”

Lerion barely glanced at Gelan, a novice more interested in games of prowess than designing his society’s future. He forced his lips into a polite smile as his eyes darted around the design hall. Gelan had not been chosen to compete, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He continued to beam at Lerion, forcing him to reply. “Yes, this is it.” Lerion cringed at the awkward silence that followed, and he patted Galen’s shoulder longer than necessary. Lerion considered Gelan as dull as a koor, one of the enormous black birds that populated the skies at sunset. Their call was a trumpeting annoyance, and Lerion could not think why they were allowed to exist. If he had his way, he would redesign the entire creature, starting with its song.

Gelan’s grin faltered, and he waved at someone across the room and slipped away. Lerion didn’t care if Gelan had picked up on what he’d been thinking, but he was certain he hadn’t. Concealing one’s musings was not a crime, but in his society, it was unheard of. Revealing his uncensored thoughts would be an insult to those around him, so he continued to conceal his disdain and maintain a pleasant countenance—false, but it kept his behavior socially acceptable. There was no need to expose his secret talent.

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The chosen group of novices stalked the length of the narrow design studio, studying and comparing entries. Lerion joined them.

Only the best young designers received an invitation to enter the Creation Contest, and this was his one chance.

Lerion stretched his long fingers and gave his hands a shake as he scanned the room again. He was searching for any design he suspected might pose a threat, but nothing he saw gave him cause for concern, and he pulled a quick breath. Why had he been so worried?

His nerves uncoiled, and his step became light. He had prepared for this opportunity from the day he’d been sung into being.

The unwelcome memory of his creation day forced its way into his mind, and his jaw clenched. His creators were two beings who had achieved activation of all four quadrants of DNA, and who had formed an intimate relationship. Because of this, they were permitted to sing a new being into existence. Tsera gave the co-creators a unique DNA sequence from her Living Library, and the creators then wove their songs and intentions through the exclusive formula to manifest a new being. The creation of a living manifestation of The Main Energy Grid (MEG) was the highest honor of their society, and the day was always a cause for communal celebration.

Lerion’s temples throbbed as the uninvited flashback swirled through his brain.

Jagged vibrations forcing their way into his newly formed cerebral cortex—fear slamming into him, threatening to dissolve the new body his co-creators had just manifested. Confusion. Terror. The understanding that he was not perfect. Shame scalding him—flaying his newly formed skin as confusion, doubt, and remorse trampled him.

Tsera holding him as he sobbed, uttering soothing words. “There is no need to be afraid, Lerion. The third strand of your first DNA quadrant is malformed, but you will overcome this.”

Malformed, damaged, flawed—accusations of imperfection.

“There is no shame in being at variance with the others. You will find a way to gain full activation. It may be more difficult for you than

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the other novices but not impossible. I am going to partner you with a novice who has the same malfunction.” Taking his chin in her hand— feeling the reassurance in her touch. “You and Lalycri will help each other, will you not?”

Lerion’s cheeks burned as the room came back into focus, and he made himself take his time as he stepped along the perimeter of the room. Had anyone read his thoughts? He shoved his hands behind his back and arranged his face into what he hoped was a convincing smile.

No one was looking at him, and he lifted his chin. He had remained faithful to his vow to activate his second quadrant before any of the others in his group. Activation was accomplished by a series of challenges novices gave each other. It was meant to be friendly competition, but Lerion’s challenges often took on a heightened competitiveness the others didn’t understand. They were always polite, but eventually, it was easier for them to decline his invitations. It never occurred to Lerion to let any of them win in exchange for friendship.

He pressed his lips into a tight line. It didn’t matter—it wasn’t friends he needed.

Lerion came to an abrupt stop in front of a small silver cube formed by delicate strings of an unrecognizable metal. He inspected it while keeping one eye on its creator.

“Are you excited?” Lalycri asked. Her voice carried a hint of amusement, and though she stood on her toes, she did not reach past Lerion’s shoulder.

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

She hadn’t changed a bit since the day they were thrown together as newly formed novices with the same defect. Her dark gray eyes still twinkled with a naughty light, and she delighted in challenging him.

Lalycri was the only one who could stand up to him. She irked him, but he admired her tenacity.

“I can’t wait,” she said with a giggle. She wore her long hair loose, and it flew about her dainty head in a fetching manner.

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“I had no idea you’d been selected.” Lerion attempted to keep his tone polite.

Lalycri’s eyes flashed. “You’re not the only clever one here.”

Her tone had a sharp edge, and he recognized his insult too late.

“No, no, of course not.”

An excited energy emanated from her, shimmering against his skin. Her spirited grin caused her nose to crinkle, and her emotions swelled in gentle waves. It undulated through him, and he shivered.

He found Lalycri’s energy pattern appealing and was tempted to surrender to the pleasure it gave him; however, it would be an inappropriate time to give in to his attraction. Lalycri bore her defect with far more grace than he ever had. It never bothered her at all, and sometimes, he wished he could be more like her.

He studied the gadget, but its purpose eluded him. The Creation Contest represented the highest level of creativity, originality, and innovation. The winning design needed to uphold and even surpass the standards set by the Ancient Ones. Lalycri was not capable of this.

“This is the most daring design I’ve produced so far,” she said.

A strange expression crossed her face, and her mouth grew tight. “I would give anything to win. I long to pit myself against Tsera.”

Lalycri’s words had a ferocious quality that startled him. They all wanted the honor of winning, and the position of Main Creator carried great responsibility. It required a vast quotient of creativity. Becoming Main Creator was his destiny, and the idea Lalycri could be the one to snatch it from him was absurd.

“I shouldn’t say this, but when I meditate, I visualize myself winning and competing against Tsera.” She laughed out loud. “And then I beat her at the challenge to become Main Creator, much to her astonishment.”

Lalycri’s delusion set his teeth on edge. And yet, the musical quality of her laugh made him want to be near her. He turned back to her creation, still clueless to its purpose. “What is it?”

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“A vibrational matrix capable of protecting all creation sequences. Once a sequence is within my matrix, no one can access it or use it in any way.” Lalycri lost her smile and gazed at Lerion. “Every documented sequence now in existence, the entire Living Library, would remain safe within this matrix.” She stopped, as if to make sure he was listening. “My voice is the only key.”

The back of Lerion’s neck felt cold. Lalycri appeared to be a more gifted designer than he first believed. “Have you tested it? Are there any inherent weaknesses?” His words were more of a challenge than he’d intended.

Lalycri frowned and pushed her pretty face close to his. “If there are, I won’t be telling you.” She studied him in a deliberate way. “I imagine your design is exquisite.”

Her compliment was genuine, and Lerion relaxed into a broad smile. He wanted to boast about his invention and crush her silly dream, but he remained silent.

Lalycri brushed her hips against his and grasped Lerion’s arm.

Her proximity startled him, but he didn’t pull away.

“I have no doubt, Lerion, you will be chosen. Your ideas are brilliant,” she said. “And I, above all others, appreciate how driven you are.”

Lerion knew she was up to something and didn’t wait for permission. He pushed his consciousness past her etheric layers and connected directly with her internal energy grid to discover the truth.

It was against the rules, but he couldn’t stop himself.

His breath caught in his throat as Lalycri’s internal oscillations surged. He was aware of both her shock and pleasure, but within the chaos and the thrill of their mingling frequencies, he discovered she was hiding something.

She severed the connection, and Lerion winced. His nerve endings tingled at the energetic disruption, and he stepped back to avoid Lalycri’s violent vibrational fluctuations from slamming into him. “I must go,” he stuttered. “I do not wish to miss the announcement.”

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Lalycri’s cheeks flushed, and she stared at him with a triumphant look on her face. Lerion refused to meet her eye. His unexpected intrusion had caused her some distress, but she had broken the connection before he had time to probe her secret. It had not occurred to him that their shared malfunction gave them a mutual talent for hiding their thoughts from the collective. What he had done was wrong, but a wave of panic disabled his apology. He wished nothing more than to leave her, but instead, he searched for a compliment—anything to placate her. “Your design is smart and useful.

Honor to you.”

Lalycri pulled her lips into a tight smile and raised her eyebrows but said nothing more. He tried to assemble clever words to elevate her chaotic vibrational field but failed. Lerion bowed his head in a swift movement and charged down the corridor, his skin prickling at the memory of his connection with Lalycri. It had been surprisingly intense and pleasurable. He hadn’t expected such an outcome, and he wished to try it again. As long as Lalycri remained silent, he would get away with it. She had revealed her own flair for shielding her thoughts. Given time, he was confident he would discover her secret.

But with each step, the sensation faded and his unease grew. He berated himself for his gross indiscretion. How could he have been so rash? Novices were forbidden to connect, one to one, and Lalycri had the right to report his transgression. It would mean instant disqualification from the contest. If Lalycri betrayed him, his goals, his plans, and his most precious dream would be over.

Lerion dug his nails into his palms, fighting to keep his panic under control. He struggled to block his thoughts from being accessed by others, and the effort was making it hard to get a full breath. Hiding his thoughts and emotions, though socially unacceptable, was not forbidden. He’d been doing it since the day he conquered the Void.

He discovered this unusual talent during basic training. All novices had to activate each of four quadrants, twelve strands of DNA. It

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was their reason for existing. How a novice did this or the amount of time afforded to the process was an individual decision. However, for those who wished to accelerate the activation process, there was only one way.

The Void, a dark pit of unending nothing, proved the most direct. Those who attempted this method of acceleration experienced a complete disconnection with MEG, with light, with everything. The actuality overwhelmed many. Their personal energy grids shattered and their physical bodies disintegrated. MEG reabsorbed the fractured energy and their existence as a physical being ended.

Lerion shivered at the memory of the darkness, but he would never let such a thing happen to him. He had a theory, and he forced himself to put it to the test. He did not accept full disconnection from MEG was possible. What came from MEG went back to MEG—the light and the dark, matter and antimatter. The Void stole all reason, made you believe the darkness was absolute. It convinced you the fear was real.

Lerion trained himself to remain calm within the terror and in doing so defeated the nothingness. His mind became disciplined in ways the other novices could not comprehend. He had made more trips into the Void than any of the others. It won him an enormous amount of respect. He enjoyed their admiration, but his newfound capability magnified their failings, and once he had mastered the Void, he found it was easier to be alone.

Lerion gathered with the other novices in the Great Hall of the Apotheose where Tsera would soon announce the winner of the Creation Contest. If he won the honor of competing against her, the chance to become Main Creator would be his. His full activation would be immediate and complete. The power to control and shape each universe would be his alone.

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The bare walls illuminated the majestic space with soft dancing light, drawing intricate patterns on the crystal floor. Lerion’s gaze searched the crowded hall for Lalycri. If he could catch her eye, he would be able to tell if she was going to report him, but before he could locate her, a surge of communal joy announced Tsera’s arrival.

He turned his attention to the front of the hall. Tsera was the last of the Ancients and a master of DNA manipulation. Her lavender hair floated above her head, unbound as was the custom for important events, and her wide amber eyes left no doubt of her intelligence. As Main Creator, she was in control of the Living Library.

It contained each sequence of DNA she used to create all universes.

Protecting the Living Library was paramount to the safety of their world.

If Lalycri’s design worked, her lock could keep the library safe from illicit access, but it also meant Lalycri would be in charge—of everything. Reason enough for Lalycri to report him and get him disqualified.

Lerion gritted his teeth. He wished he could throw her into the Void and be done with the threat she posed. I could lure her there on false pretenses and…idiot. He was doing it again.

He studied Tsera to ascertain whether she or anyone else had read him. No one was staring at him, and Tsera’s attention was elsewhere. His breath came out in a rush. He must be more nervous than he’d thought. He would not make the same mistake again.

Tsera raised her hand, and the novices fell silent. “We come together,” Tsera said, “always grateful for the indissoluble connection we share with MEG and with each other. May our creation songs manifest our dreams. Our manifestations serve only to teach us and to bring us closer to the final connection.”

The novices sang in response to her prayer, and the multilayered harmony created a bliss felt by all, but Lerion steeled himself against the rapture until the sound stopped oscillating. He wanted his mind to be clear when the announcement came.

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Tsera stepped forward. “I would like to thank all who have gathered here today for helping us bear witness to this important moment.” She softened her gaze and smiled. “Together, we honor you, the novices who participated in this design contest. Your efforts have been most commendable.”

A hologram of the planet Tsera designed in the third density appeared behind her and spun slowly in honor of her unprecedented accomplishment. Tsera had won the same contest eons ago with a remarkable achievement in matter manipulation. She had created an entire biological world situated in the third density—a thing thought impossible at the time, especially for a novice. Her unique connection to MEG’s vital force energy coupled with her intention was so powerful, her voice so clear, she achieved this miracle from within the twelfth density. It was a marvel in matter manipulation.

Lerion tried to imagine how slow each vibration would have to be to sustain a life force there. Here in the twelfth density, their thoughts became matter almost instantly. With just two quadrants, six out of twelve DNA strands fully activated, the matter he created was often unstable and didn’t last long. However, if his intentions were clear, and the notes he chose to weave through the DNA sequences Tsera gave him were logical, his thoughts created what he’d intended.

Lerion worked endlessly to improve and refine his technique, and the fact Tsera had gone far beyond any novice in their history, niggled him. In her one attempt at winning the Creation Contest, she had succeeded in creating living creatures designed to evolve to full activation in the lower densities. They had the same three quadrants of DNA but were unaware of its existence and purpose. They survived in a density where MEG was almost unknowable.

Making these beings in her likeness was not the most audacious thing she’d done. She also imbued these basic life-forms with the gift of music. She embedded many clues to lead them to the correct function of the sound waves they created, but they remained blind to their

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power. They had no concept of music as a creation language or how to formulate thoughts and then sing the tones to create matter. Lerion would have been sad for them if he knew how.

They were rudely formed with a thick, dull skin that kept their frequencies subdued. They did not glow—they did not deserve.

Lerion felt the familiar anger rise in his throat. He disagreed with sharing their design vocabulary with such an inferior form of life. He spent most of his spare time studying Tsera’s bold experiment from every aspect and concluded her premise, though inspired, was flawed. Her beloved humans were never going to evolve. Still, her creation had won Tsera the position of Main Creator, and it had kept her there. As far as Lerion was concerned, Tsera’s research had gone on long enough.

Someone had to stop this wasteful use of vibrational sequences, and that someone would be him. He knew his ideas for a new universe were untested, but once he won the position of Main Creator and controlled the Living Library, he was sure his achievements would far surpass those of Tsera’s. He needed the vibrations and sequences she had squandered in maintaining her experiment to return to their rightful place in the library.

The first thing he would do as the new Main Creator would be to take their music from them. They probably wouldn’t even miss it.

The idea that Tsera’s time as Main Creator should end started as vague musings pressing against the outer layer of the collective conscious of her people. She’d retained the position longer than any other being, including any of the Ancient Ones. The consensus was this society, and its continuing evolution, would benefit from someone new. Tsera accepted the unified request for change with grace and humility.

“The winner of the Creation Contest will have the opportunity to challenge me for the position of Main Creator,” Tsera said. “The challenge will be in the form of a search.” Tsera let her gaze sweep the room.

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Lerion’s skin grew warm and the fine membrane he wore to cover his translucence itched against his neck. The tension in the room escalated.

“The challenger must find and control the three vibrations. If they succeed, they gain the powers of the Main Creator and all the responsibilities.” Tsera’s face was stern. “They will have power over all there is and all there is yet to be.”

The eager novices nodded in unison. The three vibrations were the primary tools used by the Main Creator to construct whole universes. Without the benefit of these powerful sequences, the universe would implode, and all energy would revert to MEG. Tsera scanned the upturned faces before her. “I’m certain my choice will surprise no one. I’ve selected a novice of extraordinary talent. This particular novice continues to delight us with lyrical and surprising creations.” She studied the assembled novices, smiling gently. Those in the running wore serious faces. Lerion wanted to scream.

Instead, he held his breath until he felt he would burst. When she finally called out his name, a roar like a mighty tempest filled his ears, and the room disappeared. He felt as though he might dissolve into tiny stars and float away.

The hall united in glorious sound, and the vibration of their voices carried Lerion to Tsera’s side. It was all he could do to keep from jumping and shouting.

“Honor to you, Lerion,” she said.

Relief throbbed in his chest, and he had to bite his lips to stop from grinning. He bowed more than protocol required but managed to corral his emotions and stood tall.

“Please,” Tsera said, “tell us about your design.”

The room grew still, and many of the novices leaned forward.

He hated to give his secrets away. His lips twitched as if they could stop him from speaking. He pressed them together, but he must do as Tsera requested.

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“I designed a new musical scale based on an altered frequency.”

Surprise flashed across the faces staring at him. He gave them a curt nod.

“I experimented with over seven thousand vibrations and sequences. Through this process, I discovered twelve new tones. With this new musical scale, we will have command of the frequencies required to stabilize all new manifestations. Our songs will be powerful in ways we’ve not experienced.”

“What was the spark of this idea?”

The voice came from his left, and he turned. It was Lalycri.

Where had she been? She was smiling, but her eyes were hard.

“What was the thought process?” She stared at him, but he could tell she wasn’t interested in the answers.

“I did not call for questions, Lalycri,” Tsera said. She gestured for Lerion to continue. “Explain to us the other application of your winning design.”

Lerion squared his shoulders and addressed the room. “By using my new scale to control our vehicles, they will have a stability we’ve never experienced before. We will be able to travel wherever we please—even the lower densities.”

There was an audible gasp, and Tsera’s laughter fell heavily on his ears.

“Imagine how much easier it would have been for me to create in the third density. The implications of your design are incredible.”

Tsera’s unparalleled invention existed in the third density. She had created a keen desire in many of his race to judge her design firsthand, not just through a hologram. They wanted to experience the colors, the scents, and the air for real. This desire had remained unfulfilled. The orbs in which they traveled were limited to the sixth density and above. They were prone to disintegration below this threshold, due to stronger gravitational waves and slower vibrations.

No one had created a song stable enough to keep their orbs moving below the sixth density. The vehicles were a construct of light and vi-

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bration. They were too delicate to cope with the stagnant sound waves of the lower densities. The orbs would slow to a stop and dissolve— until now.

Tsera placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her demeanor solemn. “Bravo, Lerion. I have no doubt you will be a worthy adversary.”

Her words caught him off guard, and he fought the urge to question her. He caught Lalycri’s eye and tried to give her a casual grin but succeeded only in producing a scowl. She winked at him but did not smile in return. What was she planning?

about the author

Connie studied scriptwriting in Melbourne, Australia and is a member of AWA. She is also a jazz singer/songwriter with several songs placed in local television shows, and is a regular performer in the city deemed to have the best live music scene in the world. Writing books was a natural progression for Connie. The Perfect Tear, the first book in the series, Tsera’s Gift, is her first full-length novel. She currently lives in Australia.