by Bobby Adair
Ginger opened the door to a flurry of snow and Adam-John rushing in out of the cold.
Though Ginger had drawn her sword half out of its scabbard, no other person followed Adam-John in. She glanced quickly at the dark outside, and closed the heavy door.
“It seems no one is sleeping tonight,” said Fitz, motioning to one of the chairs at the table.
“Why are you here?” demanded Ginger, suspicious.
“I saw the fire burning through the window as I crossed the square,” said Adam-John.
“Why were you crossing the square so late at night in this weather?” Ginger pushed.
Adam-John was taken aback as he realized he was being interrogated. “I meant no harm.” He pointed through the window in the direction of the main gate. “I was doing my work.”
“Work?” Ginger asked. “What work do you have at night? You should be sleeping, like the rest of them.”
“Ginger,” Fitz said in a calming voice. “Let him tell us why he’s here.”
Adam-John turned to Fitz but glanced at Ginger once more, uneasy. “You may think it odd, but I gathered many of the Scholars and some volunteers who had their numbers.” Adam-John paused, pursed his lips, and then continued. “We were counting the dead.”
“Our dead soldiers?” asked Ginger.
“Why don’t you sit?” asked Fitz, waving a hand again at the chair. “Ginger, would you run to the kitchen and see if you can get something warm for Adam-John to drink?”
“I’m no serving girl,” Ginger shot back.
“Good people show their guests hospitality,” Fitz told her.
Ginger scowled at Adam-John and then headed to the open door that led into the kitchen.
“We counted our dead soldiers, as well as the wounded,” said Adam-John. “We also counted the dead demons.”
Fitz nodded. “Why tonight, with the snow coming down?”
“Some kinds of knowledge can only be learned when they are available.”
“I don’t know what that means.” Now Fitz was suspicious.
“Me, neither,” said Ginger, coming out if the kitchen with three cups nestled in her hands. She crossed over to the table and sat them down, scooting one each in front of Fitz and Adam-John. She seated herself in front of the third cup.
“We made new weapons for the battle,” said Adam-John. “We tried tactics that have never been attempted before. I believe it is important to know which weapons and which tactics were most effective. As we counted the dead demons, we tried to guess what had killed them: a spear, a stone, horse trampling, falling off the wall, or the large stones from the catapults…or bullets.”
Fitz sat up straight and looked at Ginger, who was just as curious. “Bullets? How many did Oliver and his new friends kill with their rifles?”
“Nearly two thousand,” answered Adam-John.
“You’re lying,” Ginger told him, with no hint of doubt.
“I’m not,” answered Adam-John. “Go outside the wall when the sun comes up. Dig through the snow and look at the bodies yourself. If the wounds do not convince you, then look at where the bodies lay in the fields near the east gate. No one was there to kill them except the five with rifles. If you believe I’m lying, it’s easy enough to find out the truth yourself.”
Ginger huffed, but didn’t say more about it.
“What else?” asked Fitz.
“It may seem obvious, but we won a great victory today. The numbers prove it. But nearly seven hundred women, men, and children were killed.” Adam-John looked down at his hands in sudden shame.
“What?” asked Fitz.
“Most of our dead we found lying face down with bite marks to their backs and necks. It appeared to us they were slain while fleeing. If they had not fled… If I had not run away, fewer would have died.”
“Cowardice kills,” said Fitz.
Adam-John coughed, and seemed stuck.
“Speak,” Ginger told him.
Looking at Fitz, Adam-John said, “I was a coward. I ran. When you rode that horse up to me in the battle, it shamed me. You made me stand my ground. You had courage, when I didn’t.”
“Are you trying to apologize?” Ginger mocked.
Fitz put a hand on Ginger’s arm to silence her.
“Yes,” admitted Adam-John. “I am trying to apologize. Fitzgerald, you saved me, and you saved Brighton.” He drew a deep breath and went on. “I will not let false humility keep me from saying that I am more intelligent than most women. I’ll admit, though, that it was bigotry that made me look down only on women. With the exception of Minister Beck and Scholar Evan, I’m more intelligent than every man I’ve ever met.”
“So we’re all stupid?” Ginger scoffed. “Doesn’t sound like an apology to me.”
“I am good at what I do,” said Adam-John. “I study. I learn. I try to figure things out. But you, Ginger, have shown a talent with the sword, and led the cavalry with great success. And you, Fitzgerald, led Brighton. More importantly, you charged into the horde with only a sword in your hand and six riders at your back. You should have been killed. I thought you would be, but through your bravery, all of Brighton lives.”
Adam-John took another deep breath and collected his thoughts. “I understand now that perhaps different people have different talents, and all those talents have value. No one is better than another. They are simply different. What I’m trying to say, in the most convoluted way, is that you have my respect. I can’t speak for Brighton, but I can speak for the Academy. You have our respect and support as the leader of our city.”
As unexpected as that was, Fitz said, “Thank you. Sincerely.”
“What about Beck?” asked Ginger, not quite as taken by Adam-John’s newfound humility as Fitz. “Oliver said he was planning to overthrow Tenbrook. Any child would guess he could only do that with the full support of his underlings in the Academy. Does he still have designs on making himself the king of Brighton?”
“That was never his desire,” Adam-John argued. “We at the Academy saw the sickness in Brighton, just as you did. It was that sickness we wanted to cure. We wanted to cure it with knowledge.”
“It sounded like swords to me,” Fitz told him.
“It was,” admitted Adam-John, “initially. But armed rebellion was only a means to make a change that needed to be made. Was that not the method you chose when you did away with Tenbrook?”
“It was.” This time it was Fitz’s turn to admit something.
“Our hope was to change Brighton’s direction,” said Adam-John, “to make it a less brutal, less superstitious, less ignorant place. The famine that General Blackthorn wanted to avoid by killing the army in the Ancient City could have been avoided through proper planning, based on facts and good choices, not Father Winthrop’s superstition, or Blackthorn’s fetish for sustaining his cavalry and his blue shirts at the expense of Brighton’s welfare.”
“We’re in agreement on our goals,” Fitz told him. “Do you believe together we can make Brighton this better place that you hope for?”
“We’ve taken a first step,” said Adam-John. “I will work with you to succeed, if you’ll accept my assistance.”
“I will,” Fitz told him, “but what of Minister Beck? Will he work with us, or will he undermine us and foment revolution?”
“He tells me he will support us,” answered Adam-John, quickly. “However, he believes his experience in governance is too valuable to dismiss, and he wishes to do his part.”
“He wants to be on the New Council?” asked Ginger, still not convinced of the Scholar’s sincerity.
“He does,” answered Adam-John.
“How do we know we can trust him?” asked Fitz.
“If my word has any value, I vouch for Beck. He is egotistical and self-r
ighteous, but he is a good man. He will always put Brighton’s needs above his own.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re one of his girly Scholar boys,” Ginger spat.
Looking at Fitz, Adam-John said, “Franklin and Oliver were Winthrop’s novices. You worked for him, as well. Would you defend Winthrop’s reputation?”
Fitz looked at Ginger.
Ginger glowered and changed the subject. “We’re going to burn Winthrop.”
Fitz nodded to confirm. “He doesn’t want to do us the favor of dying on his own.”
Adam-John looked disappointed.
“You’re not happy about that?” asked Fitz.
“Burning Winthrop would be a fitting end. He’s a wicked beast of a man.”
“But?” asked Fitz.
“Before his death,” said Adam-John, “Franklin spoke out against the pyre. After Tenbrook’s fall, you spoke out against it as well. When will the last pyre burn? Or will we fall into the ways of our predecessors and repeat their mistakes?”
“Winthrop can’t be allowed to live,” Ginger argued. “You know that, don’t you? Please tell me, with all the intelligence you claim to have, you at least know that.”
“For his crimes,” agreed Adam-John. “Yes, I know that.”
“What do you suggest, then?” asked Fitz. “Do you have another idea?”
“Perhaps,” said Adam-John, “you do not burn Father Winthrop. Instead, leave it up to the people of Brighton.”
“Ask them?”
“Not exactly,” said Adam-John. “If it were up to me, I’d pass the word that the pyre will be no more. Brighton will face its future without it. How we will handle the infected men and women? I don’t yet know, but murdering them without knowing whether they might turn—or become more intelligent, like Jingo—is a sin that we can commit no more. Just the same, we cannot use the pyre to kill those who fall into political disfavor. We all know too well it has been used for that in the past.”
Fitz and Ginger both nodded agreement.
“We should spread the word that if the people of Brighton want our last pyre to be for Father Winthrop, they’ll need to build it with their own hands,” said Adam-John. “Every woman, man, and child in town who wants to see him on the flames should bring one piece of wood and stack it in the square. At sundown tomorrow, if a pile of wood exists that is tall enough to do the work, we put Father Winthrop on the pole and send him to his gods.”
“And if there is no pile of wood?” asked Fitz.
“Then the New Council will have another difficult question to answer next time they meet.”
Chapter 107: Ivory
After a long cold night outside, trepidation filled Ivory as he stepped through the front door of his house, the morning sun at his back. The last time he’d set foot inside, he’d found Minister Beck waiting at the table, telling him his father had died. Now the place was empty. He could still smell the faint remnants of the last rabbits he’d cooked, mixed with the odor of several rotting vegetables he’d left behind in his rush to get away and back to the Ancient City.
It was hard to believe how much things had changed during his last trip—for him, for Melora.
For Brighton.
“Come in,” Ivory said, turning and motioning to Melora.
She walked in behind him. “This is your home.”
“It is.” Ivory shrugged as he looked around. “Although it doesn’t feel like it at the moment. The house always has a certain strangeness to it, after so many days in the wild.”
“It’s bigger than my home in Davenport,” Melora said.
They walked over to the table and set down their rifles and bags. Ivory began unpacking some of his things. “I’m surprised you wanted to stay out so long last night, helping Adam-John and his Scholars instead of coming back to sleep or celebrating with the others.”
“The Scholars and volunteers were doing important work,” Melora said, taking a seat at the table. “I liked watching you count. I thought I might learn something.” She drummed her fingers nervously.
After days in the wild, Ivory had learned to read her mood. She wanted to say something.
“What is it?” he asked.
Melora sighed. “There was another reason I wanted to count the bodies.”
Ivory stopped what he was doing and paid closer attention. “Were you looking for a relative?”
“No. All of Ella’s family—my family—are dead. They were killed when Blackthorn spiked them.” Melora sighed. “I was looking for someone else.”
“Who?”
“Bray.”
Ivory furrowed his brow. “You think he might’ve come back to Brighton?”
“I don’t think; I know. I saw him when we were out in those woods shooting at the demons, Ivory. He was on a horse. I don’t think you saw him, but I did.”
“He was fighting the demons?” Ivory asked with surprise. “Or what was he doing there?”
“I don’t know. I only saw him for a few moments. But I shot him, Ivory. I shot him, for what he did to Ella.” Melora watched Ivory’s reaction. She lowered her head, looking sideways at Ivory. She seemed guiltier for keeping her secret than for what she’d done.
“Most of the wounded were consumed by demons,” Ivory said, as he thought about it. “He probably died.”
“I didn’t find his body when we were out looking. That’s why I was out there. I wanted to make sure he was dead.”
Ivory nodded slowly as he took a seat across from her.
“He deserved it, for what he did,” Ivory said, taking her hands. “He killed your mother. That’s reason enough.” Ivory watched her. “I still feel bad about Ella, about William—”
“Don’t, Ivory.” Melora looked away before she could finish the sentence. “I can’t talk about it anymore. Jingo was right. There was nothing more we could do for William. Just like he said. But I think there are things we can do here.”
Ivory reached across the table, taking her hand. “I agree with you.” He looked around the room, then at the table, remembering the conversation he’d had with Beck. “A while ago, Beck offered me a way into the Academy. I wasn’t convinced, at the time, but with Jingo here, it might be different. He has hundreds of year’s worth of knowledge. He’s like an encyclopedia.”
“A what?”
Ivory laughed. “I’ll explain it to you, some time.”
Melora nodded. “You’d better.” She smiled.
“I want to believe things will be better for us here.”
“I hope they will be.”
“We should get some sleep. We haven’t gotten more than a few hours, in the past few days.”
“I think you’re right,” Melora said. “I don’t even remember what a bed looks like.”
Chapter 108: Fitz
The world was blanketed in a layer of fresh white snow. The clouds were the color of dirty cotton pulled over the sky, hiding the blue and the sinking afternoon sun.
Only the people of Brighton brought color to the world, wrapped in their winter clothes, with cheeks red from the cold as they massed in the square.
Over the heads of the women, men, and children, a haze of white hung in the air as their breath froze into fog, like the quiet hate that murmured between them, perhaps afraid to voice it out loud, perhaps ashamed of the choice they’d each made.
Branches and twigs covered the Cleansing platform, where generations of women had been shamed in their nudity before a thousand leering men as they were fondled and judged, crying out of fear that the pyre might take their loved ones. It was the place where Fitz pierced Tenbrook’s intimate flesh with a razor-edged sword to make him feel the emasculating retribution of Brighton’s oppressed meek, showing him their anger and strength.
For every
woman in Brighton, the Cleansing Platform was the deepest pit of Brighton’s shameful soul.
Father Winthrop stood at the top, not presiding over the affair, but tied naked to a pole for all to see. His face was a mask of scabs and oozing bites centered by the gaping hole of his sinus cavities where his nose used to be. Most of his fingers and toes had been bitten off. Whatever parts of him weren’t scabbed were bruised. What wasn’t bruised was crusted in filth, mud from the battlefield, or filth of his own making.
Even with a nearly unrecognizable face, everyone knew the body on the pole belonged to Father Winthrop, Councilman, Bishop of Brighton, erstwhile deity, self-proclaimed god of war, who hung there like a captured animal, suffering the vindictive blood lust of thousands.
The crowd stood far back from the pile of wood. They’d all seen their share of pyre deaths. They knew how those flames could singe anyone who dared loiter too close.
Only Fitz stood in that barren circle, one woman, alone with her torch, to face that grotesque monster. It was her choice, her responsibility to take the final step away from Brighton’s dark past into its ambiguous future. She had to touch flame to wood and make it real. It was the moment the door behind closed and the path ahead opened up.
She suffered no qualms about what was about to happen. She wanted it. The people of Brighton chose it.
With the massive pile of green wood they’d collected, Fitz knew they wanted something more than just death.
They wanted Winthrop to suffer, and to suffer long.
Everyone in Brighton knew that dry kindling and seasoned logs burned the fastest, making the hottest flame. Everyone was an expert in pyre preparation, even those who had never built one. They all knew dry wood paved the quickest path to death once the flames started.
And they all knew where to place that first torch. Lighting dry wood all around the base would start the fire in earnest, and bring the fastest death, minimizing the victim’s suffering.
But to put the torch at the top of the woodpile, especially a green woodpile, was a punishment saved for the Council’s most hated victims. That kind of fire might burn all through the afternoon, slowly roasting instead of immolating, taking hours for its flames to roar hot enough to kill.
