by Bobby Adair
“Why didn’t you wake me?” Franklin asked, feeling guilty for having dozed off and slept through the night.
“You needed your rest,” Fitz said, with a grim smile. “Anyway, I have some ideas. The fact that we survived the night gives me hope.”
“What are your ideas?” Franklin asked.
Fitzgerald fell quiet for a moment. It looked like she was preparing her own sermon. Fitzgerald was as beautiful as ever. Her raven-dark hair was gorgeous, even though she hadn’t brushed it. Her eyes were bright despite her admission that she hadn’t slept.
“I’m going to tell you something I don’t think you’re going to believe.”
Franklin pursed his lips and looked at Fitz, not sure whether to encourage her to proceed or not, not sure he wanted to hear it. Finally he asked, “What?”
“First,” she said, “We talked about how The People respond to you, right?”
Franklin nodded. “You mean when I’m proclaiming The Word in the service?”
“Of course.” Fitz laid a hand on Franklin’s thigh.
Franklin looked down at her hand—perilously close to his manhood—and for a moment, her touch made him think only of her beauty, her raven hair, her bright blue eyes, and how it felt when they embraced in the sheets after making love, her sweaty skin pressed to his. Did it matter what she was going to tell him, what she was going to ask? He’d do anything for her.
“It might not be true yet, but The People might love you in a way they never loved Father Winthrop.”
“Love?” Franklin was unconvinced. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“People will do almost anything for love.”
Franklin started to speak, but looking down at Fitz’s hand, he realized she was right. “Maybe if they grow to love hearing my words, they’ll develop an affection for me. But what of it? Love will not save me from the fire.”
“Perhaps it already did,” Fitz told him.
Franklin coughed through a harsh laugh. He jumped off the bed, ready to rail at Fitz for such a ridiculous assertion. “How can you even say that? People loved Evan, I’m sure. At least, the other Scholars did. And look at him—he’s dead. Everybody who goes on the pyre is loved by somebody, and it doesn’t do them any good.”
Shaking her head, Fitz said, “You’re both right and wrong.” She reached over and took Franklin’s hand, pulling him closer.
Distracted, Franklin took a moment to find his voice. “How can I be right and wrong? The love of a mother does nothing to save her child from the pyre.”
“The love of a few won’t do anything. You’re right about that.”
“But if all the mothers protested together, the same way they act alone, they might be able to save one child.”
Franklin thought about all those thousands of people in the square on Cleansing Day. Surely they could save a person if they acted together.
“When we were on the dais trying to save Evan, I was watching you and watching Tenbrook. I was also watching The People.”
“You say that like you witnessed something.”
“I did,” said Fitz. “I saw how The People reacted when Tenbrook spoke harshly to you. I think Tenbrook saw it, too. That’s why Tenbrook didn’t put you on the pyre with the others. I think he saw that love and he knew he didn’t have enough men to fight the crowd.”
Shaking his head, Franklin recalled the painful event. “Do you truly believe that, or are you saying this to take away my fright?”
Fitz pulled Franklin down on the bed to sit beside her. “I’m telling the truth.” She took Franklin’s hand and laid it on her breast. “I swear with all my heart I’m telling the truth. The People love you, Franklin. The more you speak to them, the more they’ll come to love you, until one day, their love for you will be so strong Tenbrook won’t be able to hurt you.”
Franklin reluctantly pulled his hand away and folded it with his other on his lap. He couldn’t think straight while his hand was on her chest. “Before the army marched out, Father Winthrop instructed me to ask Scholar Evan how many men in Brighton were truly devoted to The Word. At the time, I didn’t understand why the number was important to him. I wonder now if he was trying to get a measure of how many people would do his bidding.”
“That’s probably right,” said Fitz. “Men like Father Winthrop will never understand how all of us lowly people who till the fields and tend the pigs don’t love The Word. To us, The Word is the bludgeon that the Council beats us with and burns our children. The Word is a set of rules people fear breaking. Father Winthrop has never understood anything about people’s hearts. He only cares about himself.”
“But he was looking for the love you speak of,” asked Franklin, “is that right?”
“Yes,” said Fitz, “because he understood there was power there to be tapped. The way you speak The Word, you have transformed its meaning for people, and that is why they now are coming to love you, not The Word.”
“And the power of their devotion to me will protect us both from Tenbrook?” asked Franklin, not quite willing to accept it.
“That is exactly what I believe.”
“When the time comes,” asked Franklin, “will their devotion to me be strong enough to make them fight Tenbrook’s men?”
“If it comes to that. I don’t think it has to, but if it does—” Fitz said.
“Most of the people left in Brighton are women. Women can’t fight.”
Fitz furrowed her brow. “A large mob can easily overpower four hundred men, women or not.”
Franklin held up his hands. “Tenbrook’s men have swords and training.”
“We won’t need swords.”
“I’m not sure we’d be able to best them, even if we were able to get the rest of Brighton’s support. Are you saying we should organize a rebellion like Evan did? My life has been devoted to The Word. A soldier, or even a member of the Academy, would be more suited to lead something like that than me.”
“I’m not saying we fight Tenbrook, exactly.” Fitz chewed on her lip. “There’s been enough violence in Brighton. We both know that.”
“What, then?”
“The illusion of strength might be enough to ward off Tenbrook. It might be enough to keep us safe.”
“Evan was killed because Tenbrook discovered his plan. What if the same happens to us?”
“Winning the devotion of The People will give us security,” said Fitz. “That is my belief.”
“These ideas are all so foreign to me. I don’t know what to think,” said Franklin. “And you’re willing to bet your life on that?”
“Yes.”
Franklin paced around the room, scratching his head and thinking. “I’m not convinced we can defeat Tenbrook without violence.”
“Even if we kill him, someone worse will take his place. Look at what happened with Blackthorn and Tenbrook.”
Franklin sighed, unconvinced. “What if it doesn’t work, Fitz?” He looked around the room, feeling a little more secure in the daylight. At the same time, he wasn’t foolish enough to believe they were safe.
“It’s either we try something or we stay in this room, waiting to die.” Fitz tossed up her hands. “Is that what you want to do, Franklin? Because I don’t.”
Fitzgerald’s courage was inspiring. He needed to protect her. He needed to protect them both. “No, I don’t want to give up.”
“Just think of Lady and Bruce. What would’ve happened if they had bowed down to the demons instead of establishing Brighton?” Fitzgerald argued.
“We wouldn’t exist,” Franklin replied.
“Lady and Bruce turned fifty-seven people into three townships and twenty-seven named villages. If they can do that, why can’t we keep ourselves—and Brighton—safe?” Fitz smiled through he
r fear. She patted his leg. “We’ve both made mistakes, Franklin. People have died, and people have suffered. But we have a chance to build something here.”
Franklin’s mouth opened and closed as he thought through her analogy of Lady and Bruce. It certainly made him feel better than whipping Oliver or burning Father Nelson.
“A few weeks ago, I’d never have believed you could become the Bishop. And here you are. That must mean something. Whether it’s the work of the gods or some higher power, I’m not sure, but we need to use your position and the talent you’ve got,” Fitz concluded.
Finished with her plan, Fitzgerald waited.
“You’re right, Fitz,” Franklin said, smoothing the silk robe. For the first time, it felt more earned than borrowed.
“Let’s do this together.” Fitz smiled. “I have confidence you can rally support through your sermons. I’ll go out there and continue my chores. We’ll pretend everything is normal until we build The People’s devotion. Then we’ll figure out what to do. We’ll make Brighton safe.”
Hit with a burst of courage, Franklin said, “You’re right. I’m through hiding. I’ll go say good morning to the clergymen. Then I’ll work on my next sermon.”
Franklin started for the door. He’d only gotten a step when Fitz grabbed his arm.
“I love you, Franklin,” Fitz said, leaning over to kiss him.
“I love you, too.”
Chapter 6: Oliver
Oliver was exhausted and cold. He and Beck had spent the night following the course of the river until it branched out into a delta of swamps and creeks as it neared the eastern ocean. The path of the river was the only guide they’d had in the dark to keep them moving away from Father Winthrop, the hill, and the battle.
Through the night, they hadn’t run, and they hadn’t spoken. Only brief whispers passed between them when it was necessary. They’d snuck from one hiding place to the next, leapfrogging their way between scraggly bushes and tall clusters of skunk cabbage, scanning from each spot, looking for lurking demons. At first, they’d seen the twisted men in every shadow, not because they were afraid and imagining phantoms, but because demons were there, all running toward the sound of the battle on the hill. As the night wore on, they’d come across fewer and fewer, and it bolstered Oliver’s belief that he and Beck would survive.
Now, with the sun having finally chased away the night, they found themselves in a forest with as many ruined walls, pillars, and mounds of rubble as trees. The ground was scattered with all shapes and sizes of ancient rocks, covered over by layers of grass just thick enough to tempt a foot to come down at the wrong angle and break an ankle.
As a way out of the graveyard of derelict structures, Beck led Oliver up a little gravelly hill not much taller than a two-story house back in Brighton. “Maybe we can spot a path through from up here.”
Oliver followed, happy to be on solid ground.
When Beck stopped at the peak, he pointed across a field of cylinders made of Ancient Stone, all lined in neat rows and surrounded by tall brown grass and trees, all in an area bigger than the square in Brighton. Each of the cylinders was perfectly round and about fifteen feet long, open at both ends, at least where the ends weren’t clogged with grass and bushes. Each was tall enough that Beck could stand up inside them without bumping his head.
Beyond the row of large cylinders were more cylinders of various sizes and various lengths, mostly in good order, just as the Ancients had left them all those years ago. Oliver could only guess that their purpose was as strange as their appearance. Far on the other side of the cylinder yard stood the remains of buildings and hulks of machinery so rusted and twisted by time that Oliver didn’t think even an Ancient would be able to guess what they’d once been.
“Have you ever seen anything like that?” Beck whispered.
“I was going to ask you,” said Oliver.
“It seems at every turn, we see something fantastical.”
Oliver agreed, but he was getting too tired to expend much thought on it. “Do you think demons live in these? Are these demon houses?”
Beck shook his head, stopped, and looked down at Oliver. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard any stories of where the demons live. I suppose anyone who had the misfortune of coming across their lairs didn’t live long enough to bring the story back to Brighton.”
Oliver looked to his left and right, hoping to spot some structure that might be a good place to hide, though he wasn’t wholly against climbing into a thicket far off the game trails, pulling his blanket over his head, and trying to sleep.
“They appear deserted,” said Beck. He pointed at a thin trail through the grass, probably used by rabbits and raccoons. “This is similar to the game trail we’ve been following. Do you suppose we’d see more evidence of the demons if they lived in these cylinders?”
Oliver followed the path of the game trail as it paralleled the line of the cylinders. There didn’t seem to be any branches leading into any cylinder mouth. Surely, if demons lived inside them there’d be some evidence of their passing, as Beck had suggested. Oliver took a long sniff but didn’t smell anything.
Beck watched him do it, then did the same. “They do have a pungent odor, the demons. I’m sure we’d smell it.”
Oliver knew the smell well, having breathed it in up close. “I think we’re safe. We should go inside one and try to rest.”
“We can take turns sleeping,” said Beck. “You sleep first.”
Oliver raised his eyes to look toward the mountains, gauging how far he and Beck had traveled. A zigzagging discoloration down the face of a steep side marked the road the army had followed on their way down to the coastal plain. Halfway across the plain, Oliver gazed at the hill where he’d been too fearful to put an end to Winthrop. The price of that decision was Winthrop’s murder of General Blackthorn.
“Your young eyes are sharper than mine,” said Beck, looking at the distant hill as well. “I still see fires on there, but I can’t tell if anything is moving.”
“It’s too far,” said Oliver. “I can’t tell either. Do you think any of them survived?”
“I don’t see how.”
“Me, neither.”
Beck led the way down the mound of dirt and headed toward the empty pipes. “If you see one you like more than the others, feel free to claim it.”
Chapter 7: Winthrop
The defensive ring of trenches and ramparts was buried under piles of bodies ten feet tall. On top of those corpses, men stood shoulder-to-shoulder, the strongest of Winthrop’s army, ready to slay any spore-twisted beast still brave enough to come. They chanted a god-speak dirge. Below the wall of the carcasses, no dirt was visible beneath the carpet of the dead. Out in the savannah, as the sun rose in the east, few demons moved. None came toward the hill.
Winthrop saw those demons for what they were—animals full of fear. They’d witnessed what a god of war could do, and now the bodies of their brothers formed the foundation of a temple to that god.
My temple.
“What will you have us do, Father?”
Winthrop turned away from the beautiful carnage on the hill’s sides and noticed a familiar semicircle of men standing on the slope beneath him. Their faces were those of the faithful from that first night beyond Brighton’s walls—they were his truest followers.
The tallest of them waited for an answer to his question.
“My son,” said Winthrop, abandoning god-speak for the sake of his inferiors, “you and these men shall be my priests. It will be your privilege to carry my wishes to ears too distant to hear.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Other men added their thanks.
“Faith is always rewarded, if not in this life, then tenfold in the next.” Winthrop turned to the sky to bask for a moment in his own divine glow. “T
ell the men to rest. We have many nights of killing to come.”
The tall man pointed at the few demons left in the plain. “We may have killed most of them.”
Winthrop turned away from the tall man and looked down the coast. Far in that direction lay the rugged gray spires of the Ancient City, the cradle of demons. He pointed. “We’ll kill them in their homes. We’ll slaughter their young in their nurseries. We’ll kill until no demon has blood left to sacrifice.”
“What about food?” one of the new priests asked. “The demons overran the stores last night. We have nothing left.”
Winthrop laughed. “My son, my son.” Winthrop beckoned the man closer. When the new priest was within reach, Winthrop laid his hands on the red prints on the man’s chest. His hands fit perfectly. “Your faith and the blood of the demon has made you invincible. If your faith is pure, then fill your belly with demon flesh, and I can grant you the gift of immortality.” Winthrop turned back to the carnage on the hill’s slopes. “Bring me a warm, bleeding heart. I’ll show you the way.”
Chapter 8: Melora
Melora’s heart fluttered as she and Ivory reached the ancient building where she’d stayed with Ella, William, and Bray. She searched for evidence that the building had been compromised. Anything could’ve happened in the time she was gone. The entrance was blocked with the same stones they’d used before. A morning shadow blanketed the doorstep. She smelled the air for signs of the twisted men, but found only the cold, damp odor that had become the building’s familiar essence.
“That’s the one, right?” Ivory asked.
“Yes,” Melora said, biting her lip.
She clenched her sword. She assumed anyone looking for her at night would’ve given up and retired when it got too dark. She looked around for demons, but she hadn’t seen any in several blocks that they’d had to hide from. She thought back to what Ivory had told her. Perhaps he was right about the demons avoiding certain areas.
