And Gianna! What was to happen to Gianna now? Tashué Blackwood wasn’t her regulation officer. Did he have the authority to process her? Had he fulfilled his threat to notify Gianna’s officer? Sweet North Star, what would happen to Gianna in a place like the Rift? He met Tashué Blackwood’s eye, searching. If Glaen went quietly now, would Tashué’s need for order be satisfied? Gianna couldn’t be non-compliant if Glaen was in the Rift. If he cooperated, would Tashué leave Gianna alone?
Tashué walked beside Glaen as they left the room, one hand gripped like a vice around Forsooth’s arm. His hands were so big and so strong that Glaen thought Tashué could have crushed him. Glaen tried to walk with a straight back and square shoulders, like the powerful people around him, but the collective force of their will crushed against him and he felt himself shrinking.
An omnibus waited for them on the street. The usually bright and merry colours had been painted over with slate grey, the words National Taint Registration Authority Prisoner Transfer stencilled with gold paint on each side. A photographer waited with her camera ready. Glaen’s heart sank further. Why did they need photographs?
She frowned as Tashué led him down the stairs. “Haven’t you any manacles for him?”
“We don’t put manacles on the ones that come peacefully.” The Jitabvi woman who spoke was like Tashué; all strength and power barely contained in human form, even though that form was considerably smaller. She was shorter than Glaen, but her stance was that of a warrior, confident and dangerous. Her hair was braided in the intricate style of the Jitabvi people, long strands of silk telling the story of her clan and family.
The photographer’s mouth made a hard line. “But do you have any? It makes a better photograph that way. Easier to tell who’s who and all.”
Tashué sighed back. “You can tell just fine without them.”
“Very well.” The photographer bristled. “If you could all stand as you were before, with the tainted in the centre.”
The officers shuffled around on the front steps, pulling Glaen into position.
“Mr. Hillbraun, could you point the rifle at the tainted?”
The wild-eyed man, Hillbraun, grinned and swung the rifle down in front of Tashué’s chest to point it at the side of Glaen’s head. Glaen flinched away, but faster still, Tashué’s arm snapped forward. He grabbed the muzzle and pointed it at the ground. Glaen felt something shift in Tashué, anger bubbling to the surface. Glaen wished he could sink into the granite steps.
“We don’t point loaded rifles at men unless we intend to shoot them.” Tashué’s voice was thunderous, rumbling. “Take your damned photograph already! And get this fucking rifle out of my face or I’ll shove it up your arse!”
“Try it!”
Hillbraun tried to jerk the rifle out of Tashué’s grasp. Tashué gave it a hard pull and Hillbraun staggered from the step he stood on. His grip on the rifle slipped and Tashué twisted it, jerking it from Hillbraun’s hands. Hillbraun staggered for balance and Tashué swung the rifle by its barrel, the buttstock catching Hillbraun just behind the knee. His leg buckled and he fell hard, tumbling to the cobblestones at the base of the stairs.
“Fuck you, Blackwood!” Hillbraun’s face was bright red as he scrambled to his feet, shaking with rage.
Tashué snorted, turning away. “That’s salty language to be throwing at the man holding your rifle.”
“Keep the rifle.” Hillbraun spat at Tashué’s feet, the veins in his neck bulging at his collar. He stormed away, but didn’t make it far—he stopped at the omnibus and climbed up beside the driver. There was an ugly stillness that reminded Glaen of the humidity left by a storm that brewed but never came. Tashué’s grip had loosened on Glaen’s arm and his heart skipped a beat. Glaen saw himself bursting free, running down the stairs. He was fast, he had that at least, certainly faster than Tashué Blackwood. If he was around the corner swiftly enough, he would escape the reach of those terrible guns and their roaring black powder. His heart pounded faster at the very thought, his chest going tight. He gulped for air as his legs tensed.
The Jitabvi woman stepped closer. “I’ll take the rifle and stand beside you.”
Tashué’s grip tightened as he exhaled a long, slow breath. “Will you take the damned photograph now?”
Glaen took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, his shaking limbs. He still saw himself running, but now his imagination wasn’t so optimistic. He almost heard the guns roaring, the bullets tearing through his back, his lifeblood pumping to the worn, chipped cobblestones.
The pop of the flashbulb made his knees weak, made his lip tremble. What would they do with their photograph? They needed some evidence of his weakness, surrounded by men and women made of sterner stuff than him, and he hated them for it. He blinked against tears and they loaded him into the back of the omnibus. There was another pop, a flash lighting the omnibus around him. Glaen bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. Tashué sat beside him, the Jitabvi woman settling across from him, ugly longrifle still in her hands. The Imburleigh weapons were said to be the best, the most beautiful, most highly sought-after. Glaen saw no beauty in them. How could there be beauty in a thing that was meant only for bringing death? The other three officers climbed in, spreading around the long benches so that Glaen would have to pass every one of them if he tried to reach the door. The pair of rifles stared at him with their malevolent eyes, promising death if he so much as shifted. Tashué knocked on the wall and the horses leaned into their traces, the omnibus rattling as it started down the cobbled street.
The omnibus rattled across the cobblestones. Glaen imagined the Rift, standing tall and ugly and alone on that island. He hated his own weakness. He wished he’d been brave enough to fight against the injustice of it all. Leave Gianna? Never see her again? He would sooner cut off his right arm than turn his back on that woman, the only true and genuine thing in his life.
He hoped she would escape the Rift. She was a healer after all. Healing hands were the most valuable thing in the Dominion. They wouldn’t send a healer to the Rift, not when she had saved so many lives, when she had so many years of service left.
As he stared out the back window, there was a terrible realization they weren’t headed west to the Rift. The streets had become smoother and better paved, the buildings stood straighter, the people that scurried in the wake of the omnibus wore nicer clothes. They were headed east. To Drystone.
“Where are we going?” It was a stupid question, and his voice was shrill, but he couldn’t believe it. Surely, he was mistaken.
Tashué huffed a sigh. “I warned you, didn’t I? I told you—it’s your business if you don’t care about your life and where it goes, but there are two of you in your relationship. She’s non-compliant, too.”
“No!”
Glaen surged to his feet, heading for the door. The omnibus was still moving, but he didn’t care. He’d jump out of the damned thing while it rattled down the street and then — what?
Tashué caught him by the back of the shirt, dragging him down. Glaen twisted, trying to break from Tashué’s grasp, animal instinct finally rising and telling him to fight. He thrashed against Tashué’s hands. His elbow struck something, and he heard Tashué grunt. Glaen twisted again and kicked out, foot striking Tashué’s chest. Tashué threw his weight on Glaen, pinning him down, crushing the air out of him with his bulk. Another officer surged forward, grabbing Glaen by the arms. The manacles clamped hard around his wrists, cold iron and sharp edges biting into his flesh.
“Let’s not try anything else, sir.” The Jitabvi woman’s voice cut through Glaen’s wild desperation again and he looked up to see the rifle pointed at him. “This is a tight space and you wouldn’t want to get yourself hurt.”
“Please.” The rifle froze him, sucking away what courage he had. Tashué hauled him up so he sat again, perhaps so he made an easier target. “Please, just leave her out of this. She’s a healer!”
“It doesn’t work that
way and you know it.” Tashué’s voice had gone hard, losing its patience and understanding. His lip was swollen and split, and Glaen took savage joy in the sight of the blood. “I warned you.”
The omnibus stopped in front of Gianna’s building and panic rose in Glaen, so wild he barely felt human. He didn’t know how he convinced himself that Gianna would somehow escape this punishment. How he could have been so blissfully naïve? She shortened her life and abused her body in order to strip disease away from those wealthy enough to afford her services. None of that mattered. It only mattered she was tainted.
Glaen realized with a twist of his gut it wasn’t about relationships or breeding. The Authority had decided the tainted, especially the ones as strong as Gianna, needed to know their place.
Tashué nodded and the Jitabvi woman reached over, opening the back door with one hand. Her other arm kept the rifle level, the muzzle pointed at Glaen. Her eyes, startlingly green, never once left Glaen’s face.
The rest of the officers filed out. She stayed behind with her rifle, her burning green eyes and her imposing presence that took up more room than her small frame should have been entitled to. How did a person get to be bigger than their body? Surely it was something they were born with, their own special talent.
A single gunshot ripped through the air, its retort loud and echoing and ripping through his thoughts. It turned Glaen’s guts to water. “What was that? Was that Gianna? Did they shoot her?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Forsooth. I was sitting right here, same as you.”
Glaen groaned and sagged back against the wall of the omnibus, his body feeling weak and faint. All the fear and grief and anxiety drained the energy from him, and he couldn’t stand the way his limbs trembled. “It wasn’t Gianna. It couldn’t have been. She wouldn’t hurt anyone. Surely they know that, don’t they? She’s never harmed a person in her life. She’s a healer! Why would they shoot a healer?”
The Jitabvi woman said nothing and the hard silence returned. Glaen squeezed his eyes shut and prayed it wasn’t Gianna. It was someone else. It was a misunderstanding.
He took deep breaths, trying to soothe his hammering heart as his chest started to ache. He counted the beats, trying to imagine how much time was passing. What was taking so long?
The sound of hooves made him open his eyes, another omnibus stopping in the street. So that was it, then—they were waiting for another prisoner transfer omnibus to take Gianna to the Rift. Very well. He would see her later, once they were interred into the bowels of that foul place. The Authority wouldn’t succeed in keeping them apart.
But as the omnibus pulled closer to Gianna’s building, Glaen realized something was terribly wrong. It wasn’t a grey-painted bus, but rather a waggon, painted so deep black, it was barely more than a shadow. The blackwaggons rode all across the city, bringing bodies to the crematoriums and funeral homes and cemeteries.
“What’s happened?” Even as he asked, he knew. North Star help him, he knew.
“Sit down, Mr. Forsooth.”
“But what’s happened? Why is the blackwaggon here? Damn you, won’t you let me see?”
An officer opened the back door and Glaen saw the others loading the body into the blackwaggon.
Blood dripped from the board they carried her on, her wild hair dangling like black lace.
It was Gianna.
A wild sound came from Glaen, so feral and terrible that he didn’t recognize it as his own voice. He sagged against the back wall of the omnibus. The Jitabvi woman had her finger directly on the trigger again, but Glaen didn’t care. He surged to his feet and darted for the door as the other officer tried to climb in. The Jitabvi woman sprung up, swinging the butt of her rifle into Glaen’s chin. His teeth clamped together on his tongue and he staggered back, blood filling his mouth. She was on him in an instant, kicking his legs out from under him. He fell hard, head striking the floor. Even as his mind filled with stars, he realized he was still howling, no coherent words coming from him, only grief and pain. The second officer leaped in, putting a knee into Glaen’s chest, the impact knocking the air out of him. He struggled for breath. While he lay prone, the second officer attached a chain to the manacles. The Jitabvi woman trained her rifle on Glaen’s face. That rifle didn’t scare him anymore. It threatened to take something from him that he no longer wanted. He tried to roll to his feet, to force the woman to shoot him so he didn’t have to feel this pain. The other officer locked the chain to a bolt in the floor. The chain was too short for Glaen to even couldn’t stand.
“Why did you kill her? She wouldn’t hurt anybody!”
He babbled on, eyes stinging with tears. The omnibus started to tremble again, bouncing over the cobbles. The little officer with the wild eyes hadn’t climbed aboard. Neither had Tashué Blackwood.
“She wouldn’t have ever hurt you! Gianna! Gianna!”
No one said anything. No one looked at him anymore. Even the gun had turned away, pointing straight down at the floor, because who could he hurt now? Chained to the floor like an unruly dog. He didn’t bother asking them any more questions, these people that wouldn’t even give him the courtesy of being afraid of him. He was tainted, damnit, wasn’t everyone afraid of the tainted?
He had to scream to release the pressure in his chest or he would crack from the inside out. The more sound that came out of him, the more it echoed inside of him, in the rapidly growing hollow spot in the centre of his soul where Gianna used to be.
II
The Rift was every bit as cold and hard as the exterior stone suggested. Its long hallways and small rooms were sparsely lit. Oil lamps guttered against the walls, leaving the room thick with smoke and heat. As soon as he stepped into the building, Glaen felt the presence in his skull, crushing something near the base of his neck, blocking him from connecting to his own talent. The feeling of invasion was worse than he’d ever imagined, as if someone had reached into his mind and crushed some part of him that he had been taking for granted. His was a small talent, perhaps, the act of making light where there seemed to be only darkness. But being severed from that talent left him feeling smaller, like someone had taken a saw to his knees.
A series of rooms and paperwork saw Glaen processed into the Rift and deposited into the inner bowels of the place long after dark. He was so weary his body was numb and senseless—except for the pain in his skull. His own screams still echoed in his chest, but his throat was so raw and dry he couldn’t make another sound. He took the processing in silence, staring away at some distant spot, eyes so gritty with fatigue it felt like he’d dipped his face in sand.
A guard with a gruff voice and dark circles beneath his eyes showed Glaen to the bunk room. It was a cavernous space, the largest he’d encountered since arriving in the Rift, with shelves of bunks stacked up the wall like cord wood. Climbing to the second row of bunks was easy enough, but as he forced himself up to the third and then the fourth, his limbs trembled so viciously that he was afraid he’d lose his grip. There was only murky darkness below him and he couldn’t see how far he’d come. But he could feel it, like a great black force that tried to drag him back down the way he’d come. He didn’t belong up here. It wasn’t his place to climb, to reach upward.
When he finally reached the bunk assigned to him, he slumped down against the wood. The yawning darkness around him seemed to spin, trying to throw him back down to the floor where he belonged. He unwrapped the blanket he’d been given from around his shoulder, curling into a tight ball beneath the coarse wool. He tried to ignore the sour smell of old sweat, tried to ignore how terribly close to the edge he was, no matter how small he tried to make himself.
He tried to rest, praying sleep could take him away from this nightmare, but it was no use. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Gianna’s body on that board, her blood thick and congealing and dripping in dark clumps. Her beautiful hair, wavy with the late summer humidity and snagged with moss and rich yellow oak leaves. Was it his memory playing tricks o
n him, adding the same leaves that had been in her hair that first day he lay eyes on her? What kind of leaves had those been? He couldn’t remember anymore, no matter how many times he combed through his mind. As he lay on the hard bunk, his arm tucked under his head to act as a pillow, his mind’s eye forced the two moments together. Gianna, sitting on that bench, metal cup of coffee in her hands, leaves in her hair. But her face was grey and her eyes were empty and there were clots of blood clinging to her clothes. Better not to close his eyes.
He lay awake instead, staring through the darkness, listening to the sound of the other prisoners sleeping. Snuffling, shifting, coughing, farting, grunting. Someone was rutting, he was certain of it. The creak and the grunt and the muffled panting was so familiar that it made the place feel almost like home.
The darkness of the Rift was invasive. Even in the full light of day, there was a deep gloom. Murder holes didn’t make for good windows. The darkness pressed on the edges of his mind, leaving him tired and empty, little more than a shadow. But then, he wouldn’t have felt that way even if it was sunny and bright. Gianna was dead and the sun had set for him.
Glaen had been trying to sleep for a few days — it was hard to sleep in this cold, noisy place, wrapped tight in his blanket and his clothes and his boots — when the whisper of cloth and soft pad of a foot startled him to full wakefulness. A foot passed by his head, then another, then an entire body. Someone was climbing down through the darkness. Glaen shifted slowly, quietly, peering out over the ledge. The figure reached the floor and was away with enviable confidence. Whoever it was, they must have done this often.
Glaen hesitated only a moment before turning out of his bunk. It took him longer to reach the ground, darkness and his lack of practise making him clumsy. No one stirred, or perhaps they didn’t much care. Glaen’s heart thudded in his chest as he followed, trying to move silently. The bottom of his boots scuffed on the rough places of the stone floor, each sound making Glaen wince. Was it only his fear that made the sound seem so loud, or could everyone hear him as he moved?
Dark Ends Page 3
