by J C Maynard
Kyan’s eyes were closed and his hair was ruffled more than usual. Although he learned to sleep through the racket of the night by tuning out the world and listening to his breath, he had gotten little sleep the past two weeks. Not unlike how the Phantoms spied on Tayben before recruiting him, Kyan felt as if Riccolo and his Nightsnakes were right outside his makeshift door. Kyan felt the need to watch the blanket doorway as it swept aside in the wind to see if someone was behind it.
Understandably, no one had ever seen his shack before — roof running was quite an uncommon practice among the citizens of Aunestauna. Only twice before had Kyan seen thieves running atop the city by moonlight from within the attic, which jutted out of the top of the theatre like a top hat. Sheets of metal ran over the largest holes to protect his shelter from common summer rains. The first cool breezes of autumn began to sweep through the valley. On the clearest of days, Kyan would wake to a salty waft of air coming from the large inlet of the Auness sea, which connected the capital to the rest of the world by sea trade. A leaf on an oak tree under the clocktower yellowed, and most children would now start schooling again. All children in the first and second district attended a school or academy from the ages of seven to fourteen. Most children had some sort of schooling in the third district, but many of them were orphans, even more in the fourth district, where few parents elected to keep their kids past the age of eight. Whenever the winter months rolled over, he gazed at the school children who threw snowballs at one another in the square below his ramshackle home.
A month prior, Kyan could not read or write better than a six year old; but memories and knowledge from his other lives kept flooding into his mind every day. In a matter of two weeks, he absorbed nearly eight more years of knowledge. He knew the intricacies of the Ferramish government and what it felt like to be prince; he knew what it felt like now, to be a Phantom soldier and jump twenty feet in the air and sprint through the forest fast enough to dry sweaty hair; and although, as Kyan, he could not visibly control his Taurimous, he knew what it was like to be a sorcerer. Even though he thought of many explanations, he decided the only one that made sense was that somehow, the reason he lived four lives was because he shared the same Taurimous between his selves. As Kyan, he hated living three different lives; as Tayben, he hated Calleneck; as Calleneck, he hated Tayben; as Eston, he tried to make sense of it all. It felt as if several doors had been opened in his mind, revealing a whole new world of information . . . new rooms in an endless castle. Kyan felt as if he had found a way to unlock his mind and access what was truly there — three other lives, with things and places and relationships as real as any that he had now. But trying to wrap his head around it only brought up more questions.
The air was slowly warming after the cool night, and Kyan slept shirtless on a pile of blankets. The clocktower across the adjacent square struck eight in the morning and a rat scurried away from the blanket-covered doorway which blew open. A set of footsteps clicked on the wood outside the attic and an eye peered through a hole in the beams. Silently, a delicate hand drew open the makeshift door and a girl silently stepped inside the cramped rooftop shack; Kyan remained asleep.
Her skin glowed dark olive, and her soft, almond-shaped eyes bore resemblance to the people of the Southlands, the people of the desert. Long, thick hair hung over her slender shoulders. She wore a gypsy-like headscarf, which she slipped off to reveal a large, red snakebite on her neck.
The girl, trying not to startle him, whispered “Kyan! . . . Kyan wake up!”
Kyan’s eyes shot open and he violently jolted back and grabbed his knife. “What the hell are you doing? Who are you?!” The girl held her hands up as Kyan stood up and pointed his knife, his head nearly touching the ceiling. “I said who are y-” Before he could finish his words, the light bounced off a mark of a bite on her neck.
Kyan whispered, “Nightsnake . . .”
With her hands raised, the girl looked at Kyan’s knife. “Please, lower your knife. I’m here alone and I am not trying to hurt you. If I was, I wouldn’t have awakened you . . . Please.”
Kyan hesitated, then slowly lowered his knife, and blood returned to his knuckles.
The girl’s skin color and accent hinted to Kyan that she was from the Southlands — like the gypsies of Aunestauna. Her words were hot like the burning sands and they ebbed and flowed like waves of dunes. Kyan surmised that this was her second language.
Distracted by her persona, Kyan’s mind rattled back to the snakebite on her neck. “I told your gang that I work alone. Riccolo won’t-”
“I know, Kyan,” the girl said, “I know. If any other Nightsnake sees you or talks to you, you have to swear not to mention that I was here, or that I talked to you.” Her expression was serious, but sincere.
“Why should I?” asked Kyan.
She ignored him and glanced at the pile of coins behind him. “My name is Vree Srine. I work for Riccolo; and when I signed up, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Once you get bitten, you stay stuck in Riccolo’s grasp for life. If you join, you live in your own hell. Riccolo uses me as . . .” she paused. “I’ve killed too many people for him.”
“So why did you join?” Kyan asked.
“I needed work.” said Vree.
“I wouldn’t call thieving for him good work.”
“I didn’t know I would be stealing. I fought back once and almost escaped from him. Understandably, he no longer trusts me much; but he trusts me enough to think that I’m scouting out places to hit. I know you won’t give in to Riccolo, but he’s dangerously persistent, and he will kill to get what he wants.” Vree looked out a window of the shack with darting eyes.
Kyan chuckled and shook his head. “Then what the hell are you suggesting I do?”
“Leave the city.” Vree said quickly. “That’s your option. Leave the city within the week. Otherwise, I’m afraid that he will come after you ruthlessly.”
Kyan decided to put a jacket over his bare chest. “Why are you telling me this?”
Vree folded her arms and looked sideways. “I don’t know . . . I guess I’ve hurt too many people, and I want to help someone for once.”
“Why me?”
Vree paused and felt her long black hair with two fingers. “Because it’s too late to help myself . . . you need to leave. I’ve seen what Riccolo can do, and I’ve helped him do it.”
“I’m not leaving Aunestauna.” said Kyan.
Vree raised an eyebrow and took a long look at the inside of the shack, his home.
“I’m not leaving;” Kyan repeated, “I can deal with Riccolo.”
“No you can’t, Kyan.” she said. “I know how good you are and that’s exactly why he wants you. You have memorized half of the city — the streets, the turns, the roofs, the alleys. You’re smart, but you should have the humility to accept that against Riccolo, you don’t stand a chance. Not only is he the best thief in the world, but he has almost forty others just like him. You won’t see him coming. The only reason he didn’t kill you when you turned down his offer is because he knows that you won’t tell anyone. The only people you’ve talked to in the past month are me, Riccolo, and your dealer. He also tells me that somehow, he’s erasing all of the records the Palace and the Guard have of our existence. He’s not worried about exposure.”
“If he doesn’t see me as a threat, why should I worry that he’s gonna kill me?”
Vree’s face went cold and she stared right into Kyan’s eyes. “He kills for pleasure . . . He’s mad; and he’s intelligent. That makes him dangerous. If he sees you, he will act charming and friendly and say he means you no harm, but he will always have a nasty plan in store for any disobedience . . . Please, just leave. What would you really be leaving behind?” Vree followed Kyan’s eyes, which were staring at a small silver ornament, a diamond shape with three curved grooves running through it, connecting at the tip. “Kyan?”
He looked back up at her. “I wouldn’t be leaving anything . . . Just g
et out, okay?”
Vree spun around and swept aside the entryway. Once outside, she turned back and said to Kyan, “You know, you don’t have to be cold to everyone, there’s nothing stopping you from smiling . . . I hope I get to see you again before you leave, Kyan.” Her leather boots tapped across the theatre roof and out of earshot.
Kyan stepped toward his little shelf and picked up the silver ornament. About the length of his thumb, it felt cool and metallic in his hand. The three curved grooves beginning at the top point and swinging down let a crack of light through the back if angled correctly. He quietly shoved it into is pocket, seeming to hide it from himself.
A shoulder shoved him aside in the crowd of street goers. Kyan jostled his way through the third district in hopes of finding dinner. A merchant in a shop called to him; a priest walked by chanting; and gypsies danced in a kaleidoscope of swirling fabric. Kyan approached the four dancing women with their pierced stomachs and olive-honey skin. Little ruby and emerald gems dotted their skin in a line from the tip of their nose to their hairline. They twirled and swirled and hypnotized people watching. A woman put an argentum in a pan full of coins; another man put two argentums. One passerby after another, the pan filled with money, and Kyan’s eye fell upon it.
Shimmering gold and silver coins. Sweet, sweet coins. They looked so . . . inviting. Not when everyone is watching. No, I can’t do it . . . Yes, I can. If Riccolo wants me as a Nightsnake, I can do it. Like a machine, he took a step forward. Another. Another. He smiled at the gypsies like a possessed man. He took a silver argentum out of his pocket, knelt down, and set it down it the pile so the gypsies could see; and with a quick movement of his hand, as he stood up, he drew a handful of argentums out of the pile. He smiled at them and turned around, putting his money-filled hand in his coat pocket. He was in a dreamlike state, his mind not controlling the movements of his body.
As Kyan walked away, a little boy holding his mother’s extended hand above him stared at Kyan’s pocket and then at his face. Kyan stopped in his tracks; the boy said nothing, but slowly stepped behind his mother’s legs. A jewel-covered hand grabbed Kyan’s shoulder and spun him around.
A furious gypsy’s face stared at him. “You thief!” she shouted. “You street rat!” She clawed Kyan’s face with razor-sharp fingernails and rings. He immediately felt his skin tear and blood rush down his face, forcing his mind out of it dreamy state and into reality. “You filthy scum!” she screamed. Panic flushed throughout his body; he threw the coins out of his pocket and bolted away from her and into the crowd, where he ducked and dodged to get away. The gypsies screamed and told people to catch Kyan, but he slipped through the hundreds of people like a fish through a stream. He removed his jacket and ruffled his hair as he ran, so he could look slightly different than before. Catching a glimpse of an alley, he ducked into it. From within the shaded back street, Kyan stared out into the lit avenue where big crowds moved back and forth; he lost the gypsies, and he could no longer hear their shouts. But he also lost his coins. His right cheek streamed with scarlet blood. Wanting to keep a look out from the protection of the alley, he leaned against the brick wall, scanning the crowd.
“Hello, Kyan.”
Kyan shot around when he heard someone speak out. A tall figure stepped forward. He wore a long, black cloak with a scarf to conceal his neck. “Remember me, Kyan?” said Riccolo. Kyan stood still as Vree’s words echoed in his head. He’s mad; and he’s intelligent. That makes him dangerous. Riccolo stepped forward and pulled out a cloth, wrapped around a knife. “Oh Kyan . . .” He clicked his tongue. “You disappoint me . . .” He raised the knife and cloth level with Kyan’s neck, causing Kyan to step back. His heart was beating faster and faster. “Oh, if only you had listened to me . . .” He inched forward and drew the cloth off his knife with gloved hands. Kyan took a sharp breath in as Riccolo thrust forward with the cloth in his hand. He gently touched it to Kyan’s bloody face and put his knife back in his coat pocket. Riccolo held the white cloth to Kyan’s face as it soaked up blood. “Kyan . . . I told you that you were the best of the best. You almost had the gypsies’ money.” Riccolo’s black eyes stared down on Kyan’s cut face. “Why did you stop when that little boy looked at you? You could’ve easily done it. What a shame . . .”
“Get off of me.” Kyan grabbed Riccolo’s arm and threw it away from his face.
The cloth in Riccolo’s hand now had splotches of the scarlet Ferramoor red similar to banners that hung in the streets. “Now, now Kyan . . . I don’t want violence to befall us. I want to help you.” Riccolo smiled and dropped the cloth on the ground.
“Like hell you want to help me.” Kyan put his hand in his pocket and touched his knife with a finger.
“Oh, I really do. I see your ramshackle attic and I want to provide a home for you. You see, in the fourth district — well of course you’ve been to it — my Nightsnakes have a nice place. It even has a courtyard. There, everyone always has food to eat. I’m really very proud. And I would like you to reconsider joining our team.”
Kyan stepped back to the brick wall. “I work alone.”
Riccolo inched forward. “I think we got off on the wrong note. I was aggressive back at my manor and I apologize.” He raised his palms and took another step forward. “No weapons, no need for violence. Just a friend to a friend.”
Kyan clenched his fist.
“Fine,” said Riccolo. “A thief to a thief.”
“You expect me to believe you?” Kyan put another finger on his knife.
“Kyan, I want to help you. I understand you. I was just like you. Trust me.” Riccolo removed a black glove from his deformed, four-fingered hand, which he stuck out and ran through Kyan’s long, black hair. “Kyan, did I ever tell you that you have pretty hair?”
Kyan pulled his knife from his pocket and thrust it forward. Riccolo grasped his arm right before the knife reached him. Kyan punched forward with his other arm and hit Riccolo square in the nose; but, while his nose bled, Riccolo did not move an inch. As Kyan punched Riccolo again, Riccolo’s grasp on his other arm tightened like a clamp, turning Kyan’s hand purple. The pressure was so great that Kyan yelled and dropped his knife on the stone alley floor.
Riccolo smiled and slammed Kyan’s head into the brick wall, causing Kyan to fall limp. “Now, Kyan, I think you are missing a great business opportunity. We’d work well together.” He drew his knife from his coat. Kyan tried to lift himself up, but failed. “You are a fantastic thief, and I would hate to see your life go to waste . . . What do you say, Kyan?”
Kyan struggled repeatedly to stand up, falling several times onto the wet cobblestone.
Riccolo stood in his black cloak like a hungry bat. “Kyan . . . what do you say?”
Kyan grabbed the frame to a doorway next to him and pulled himself up. “Go to hell.” He kicked his knife up at Riccolo, who dodged the flying blade.
A crash rang out from the avenue next to them and people in the crowd screamed. A window shattered and a group of Southern gypsies sprinted away from the glass, followed by Guard’s whistles that cut through the evening air. A stampede of people ran into the alley to escape the commotion, knocking Kyan and Riccolo against opposite walls. More and more people ran through the alley as more Guards came to tame the gypsy fight on the street. Through the flash of passing faces, he saw Riccolo on the opposite side of the alley, staring at him with a glare of pure hatred. Kyan glanced to his side as the stampede rolled through; when he looked back, Riccolo was gone.
The sun cast its orange light over Aunestauna as it set over the sea. Kyan sat in the wooden pews of a grand cathedral in the second district, close to the rich palace neighborhoods. Needing a quiet place to think, he journeyed there after being attacked by Riccolo. The arches of the nave stretched hundreds of feet above him, decorated with paintings and stonework. Because the cathedral was closed off until the last week of each month, he sat in the pews alone. A bird high up in the cathedral fluttered its wings as a snif
fle echoed through the nave. An enormous stained glass window depicting the Great Mother sat behind the pulpit of the cathedral, through which orange beams of sunset light streamed through, illuminating the entire hall. A reflection hovered on the vaulted ceiling, cast by a small silver symbol in Kyan’s hands.
He traced the diamond shaped metal piece with his fingers and ran them down it’s grooves. A tear fell on the ornament, which he wiped off. He closed his eyes and his mind went swirling back in his memories.
“He’s a strange little boy; doesn’t talk to anyone.” said a woman in a doorway talking to a bald man. She went on. “I know, I know, he’s in a tough spot and all. I never even met his mother who left him here. At least most of the children here remember their parents, but he was here when he was a newborn. I’ve never heard the boy speak. We know he’s not mute, he talks to himself sometimes. Guess he’s traumatized by something he doesn’t realize is traumatizing him. Kyan? . . . Kyan, will you speak to us? Kyan, please talk to us. Kyan we can’t help you if you don’t talk to us.”
The man put his hat on. “I’m sorry ma’am, but he’s a lost cause. Not even the loneliest orphans isolate themselves to this extent. He’s never said a word to you?”
She shook her head.
“Ma’am, if he hasn’t spoken in the eight years he’s been here, I just can’t take him. If he hasn’t run away from this place yet, he will soon. I’m surprised he’s held on for this long here . . . It’s all the same. Have a good day ma’am . . . You too, Kyan.”
Another tear dripped down from Kyan’s eye onto his hand. He looked up at the hundred foot stained-glass window and the beautiful depiction of the Great Mother in a long white dress. Her calm eyes stretched gentleness and power across the hall and across the city. Kyan looked up through watery, reflective eyes. Great Mother, he thought, given the circumstances I doubt you are really there . . . or listening to me for that matter. Why would you do this to me? Why did you have to screw my life over? You don’t care . . . Is it funny to see all this happen? Wasn’t it just hilarious when I could see my rib cage in the winter? What about when that drunk . . . Kyan shook his head. “I’m talking to a damn window.”
