THE CHRONICLE OF TESTOR MADELINE

Year 98, A.H.

The Relic glows silver in the blue-white ice. To the touch, the rectangular artifact is smoother than any metal ever seen or touched inside the Ring of New North, if it is indeed metal rather than some unnatural pre-Healing substance. Although the Relic should have the heft of any handsmithed object, it is strangely light and easy to raise. The artifact seems innocent, even alluring in its simplicity and attractiveness. Only eight hands-breadth across, its tiny beauty belies its great power. Emblazoned as it is with the bitten apple rune of the false god, the Relic holds a dark tale. And it simultaneously chronicles a story of hope, the very goal of our sacred archaeological ritual, the Testing.

The Relic is a portable altar where the pre-Healing people worshipped their false god. This is where those doomed humans knelt and made their empty supplications for MasterCards and Tylenols and Maybellines: their currencies of evil power, spirit-destroying meds, and paints of false beauty. It is the instrument through which they waited in vain for wicked promises, only to be answered by the true Gods in the raging flood waters of the Healing, where all heretics were submerged.

The very lightness and portability of this Relic allowed the pre-Healing people to pray wherever and whenever it suited their selfish desires. As they walked down their contaminated and overcrowded streets, they could whisper their private hungers. In this unseemly parade they wore immodest clothing. They trafficked solely in their desires. Alone, this Relic testifies to the depravity of the pre-Healing world and the rightness of our ways in New North.

It solidifies the importance of adhering to the instructions of the Gods—as recorded in The Lex. It reaffirms our collective desire to live in the manner of those ancient people whom the Gods deemed holy, those people who lived in the centuries before the corrupt era of modernity, the Medieval Period. And it heralds the momentousness of embracing the Golden Age of the Medieval Period, a time when people lived simply, men toiled with their hands, women were modest, peoples cleaved to one another—and no one forgot the higher powers, without whom we would risk the floodwaters again. Yet, when examined closely and in the context of the Site where the Relic was unearthed, it tells a multilayered tale. One more hopeful than damning.

The familiar bitten Apple rune on the Relic’s surface bares strange markings. The markings have never before been seen on an artifact of any kind. Upon meticulous inspection, it becomes clear that some pre-Healing person or persons marred the Apple symbol with angry slashes. So deep into the rune are the abrasions that they can only have been intentional and defiant.

The Relic has been defaced. In this violent act, we see the evidence of the very first rejection of Apple. We also witness the very first step toward acceptance of the true Gods and our sacred way of living.

We can be certain of the holy message shared by this Relic because the archaeological Site from which it was excavated during the Testing rite confirms this Godly missive.

This Relic was unearthed from the deck of the Genesis, the sacrosanct ship that rescued the first Founders of New North from the deadly flood waters that delivered them to our hallowed Aerie. I, a mere Testor restricted by the rules of the Testing, was able to wrench the Relic from the Genesis before jaws of ice clamped down upon the ship again and dragged it down into the chasm of this year’s Testing Site.

Thanks to the Gods for the sparing of this singular artifact and the singular chance to tell part of the Genesis’s story. I only pray that the Gods allow us further opportunities to excavate this holy Site once again.

From The Lex, we know that the Gods chose the Genesis and our Founders to deliver unto mankind a second chance at life. This Relic—with its angry slashes—proves our Founders’ rejection of the evils of the pre-Healing world. And the first step toward our Gods-sanctified second chance. This Relic must be considered of the highest blessedness.

Thanks to the Gods. Thanks to the Testing.

Martius 12

Year 98, A.H.

I breathe deeply. It is time. I can’t believe it. We are unleashed. And here I am a Testor et Maiden.

I should be worried. After all these long months training on the Aerie ice flats—years of training, really, if you count all the endless School days studying geography, archaeology, The Lex, and Healing history—we Testors are no longer waiting. Attente. Driving our teams of huskies, we race against the wind and the snow and the arctic terrain and each other and ourselves. This is our moment. Marvellieux, this feeling of freedom and speed.

No, I correct myself: marvelous. I must eradicate this old reliance on the frenchspeak of my home, a vestige of my pre-Healing ancestors. If I am to win the Archon Laurels in the Testing, I must speak and think and write only in English and Latin. Those are the true languages of New North, the last land left on Father Earth.

I never thought this race would come, so long has been the preparation. It is Testing practice only, of course, but it feels so liberating. So alive. I glance over at my fellow Testors— Gallants all, but friends, too, even though we are Maiden and Gallants. I see the same thrill in some of their eyes. Pierre and I, old family friends, share a special smile; he always welcomed me into the group of Gallants who became my fellow Testors, leaving the rest with no choice but to accept me, too. This is a first, and we all know it. No Maiden has ever Tested.

What is Vanity? The Lex teaches that it is the direction of piety toward the self, the undoing of mankind as it once lived, as opposed to piety toward the Gods. Is that why I feel Vanity as I write this? This writing is secret, a prohibition, but I cannot help myself.

I also know that everyone has secrets. Pierre confided in me that he peeks off the Ring of the Aerie when nobody is looking. He peeks down on the Boundary lands and sees how tiny and lost they are, and he laughs at them. We both laughed when he told me.

It is one thing for a Gallant to have secrets; it’s another thing for a Maiden. Maybe that is why I must write down everything I felt and feel.

I try not to let the excitement overcome me. Focus, Madeline, I remind myself. No matter how unfettered I feel, this race is not for me but for the Gods. They alone spared us from the raging waters of the Healing.

I squint through the slits in my wooden goggles. I notice a slight grey shadow in the white ice ahead. I recall my training on reading snow and ice. Pulling back on the huskies’ reins, I slow my dog team just enough to pass safely over the softer ice then push them to race again. Not too much farther now to the finish. I feel like I could win.

Be cautious. Smug confidence in one’s own powers and the celebration of one’s own glory are all symptoms of Vanity. All that I have derives from the Gods, and I allow surrender to wash over me.

The restraint instilled in us Testors takes a firm hold on my rising emotions. I remind myself that the goal of all our training is not simply winning Chief Archon. The physical rigor of training—survival skills, snow and ice reading, delicate archaeological excavation—serves also to restrain our fear and susceptibility when we make a discovery. Apple was wily; he wielded magic through his Tech. I breathe deeply. I will my beating heart to still. I offer a prayer to the Gods. Regaining my focus, I clutch the reins and fly over the last length of ice, cold hitting my cheeks like an icy splash. I glide over the finish line first. The training is complete. Now it is time.

I inscribe the words from The Lex from memory:

A Testor’s Chronicle must show precisely how the Relic led to the downfall of mankind. The Chronicle must illustrate mankind’s depravity, his Vanity, his love of Tech, his worship of the false god Apple, his sins too numerous to count. A Testor must chronicle these sins through his Relic so that the New North never repeats them. All true Chronicles shall be collected and made part of The Lex’s Holiest Truths, year by year. —The Lex, 42:54

Aprilus 1

Year 98, A.H.

The final bell of the Aerie has yet to toll, our signal to take flight for the Testing. None of my training quells my anxious thoughts and churning stomach. The Chief Basilikon jests I was born ready to Test, unlike any Maiden he’s ever met, so why I am doubting myself?

I sneak looks at the vast crowd assembled near the Gate. The entire population of the Aerie and the Boundary— decked out in their Feast-day finery of somber, embroidered gowns and tunics topped by their best furs—stares back at me. Some are smiling and some are wary, but all are ready to send me off beyond the Ring to Test along with the other eleven Testors. We will face twenty-eight days of unimaginably frigid conditions while hunting for our own food, tending to our dog teams, defending ourselves against predators, descending into bottomless crevasses, and working in complete solitude because even conversations with other Testors are forbidden. All to unearth a Relic.

My maman and papa are smiling, but I see concern and worry lurking beneath their smiles. They know better than most what I will endure. Among the somber-clad Stewards and Keepers and the black-eyed, black-haired Boundary Attendants are the women of New North. I should be standing alongside the Godly Maidens and Ladies and Gentlewomen. I should be wearing a Feast-day gown like them instead of the black sealskin uniform of a Testor. After all, The Lex says that females are weaker and that our place is in the hearth and home. Our place is certainly not in the world beyond the Gate—the Boundary lands and the Taiga and the Tundra and the Frozen Shores.

In all my long years of training, I never worried before about being the only Maiden in a queue of Gallants. Never heard a word against it from my papa, maman, orgrandmere. Never thought twice about being the first Maiden to Test in the history of New North. I only ever remember being excited. That’s why I draw strength from the Chief Basilikon’s words. He knows me. I’ve always felt called to this path; I never even thought about another. Besides, on the last vigil day, the Chief Basilikon himself looked right at me and said that Testors must “heed only the calling of the Gods, not the words of men.” But what if that calling conflicts with the words of The Lex? The words of The Lex are meant to be the words of the Gods, told through the quills of men.

Stop, Madeline. It’s too late for all this confusion. Are my last-tick doubts really the whispers of the false god trying to deter me from my Gods-given task? My ears vibrate with the tolling of the final bell. Standing tall, I crack my whip and send my huskies into the whiteness.