The Chronicles of William Wilde Boxset 1

by Davis Ashura

  “Tyrone and I used to talk sometimes,” Jake said. “We got to be pretty good friends, and he used to talk about how white people didn’t really understand racism or the reason slavery still holds a sting for people like him.”

  “Tyrone’s the whitest-acting black guy I know,” William said. “I’m blacker than he is. Doesn’t he listen to The Smiths and Echo and the Bunnymen?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not all there is to Tyrone. He used to say that for whites, racism ended back in the nineteen-sixties, but for blacks it never went away. He used to say white people buried it underground where they didn’t have to look at it. Or think about slavery, and how a person’s body, their very personhood, belonged to someone else. It was intolerable, and one of the great evils in the world.”

  “Why are we talking about this?” William asked, sounding confused. “You realize my mom’s people were brought to Trinidad as slaves, right? And I’m not exactly a white guy myself.”

  “I know, but whenever Tyrone got on one of his rants, I’d nod and agree, but really I was bored and waiting for him to shut up. I was like, couldn’t he talk about something else?”

  “And now you’ve got first-hand experience of what it means to be a slave?”

  “Pretty much,” Jake said. “And you know what I’ve figured out?”

  “What?”

  “It sucks.”

  “Well, I could have told you that.”

  “Yeah, but that’s because you’re smarter than me.”

  “Not that smart. I’m stuck in here with you, remember?”

  Jake chuckled. “You know, maybe if we hadn’t been so pigheaded, we could have been friends a long time ago.”

  “Probably so.”

  “How very touching,” a voice quipped in an acerbic tone.

  A young mahavan stood directly outside his cell, and Jake swayed for a moment as he rose to his feet. “Thank you, sir,” he said, keeping the sarcasm out of his voice and doing his best to mimic the flat, despondent affect that William used when speaking to mahavans.

  “Your friend doesn’t rise,” the speaker noted. “He mocks me perhaps?”

  “Sir, I can’t rise,” William replied. “Tender Thomas made sure of that.”

  “Oh? I think you’ll want to rise for this occasion,” the mahavan said with a smile. “You and your friend are about to receive the Servitor’s justice. Mercy might still be available.” The smile faded. “Or I can administer justice on both of you right here and right now if you don’t stand up this instant.”

  William levered himself upright with a groan. Swelling closed both his eyes to mere slits and misshaped his jaw. Jake thought it might be broken. A large goose-egg throbbed on his temple.

  “Good,” the mahavan said, smiling again. “Come along. All of Village White Sun has turned out for this.”

  William stumbled when he exited the darkened tunnel that led from the prison to the lower courtyard of the Servitor’s Palace. As usual, clouds obscured the sun, but the light outside shone dazzlingly bright after the cellar-like gloom below. He squinted against the brilliance as a new headache thumped to life.

  At the top of the stairs he swayed a moment, struggling to maintain his balance. He silently cursed Tender Thomas’ not-so-tender ministrations. The man had taken an inordinate amount of pleasure in inflicting pain when he’d broken up the fight with Justin and his friends. Maybe it was because Tenders held the lowest status of mahavans, and in a place as status-conscious as Sinskrill, that meant something.

  “Come along,” repeated the young mahavan who had fetched William and Jake from the prison. He led them to a raised, wooden stage, and William rocked back at the sight before him.

  The entire village of White Sun had assembled there, but it wasn’t their presence that sent a chill down William’s spine. It was their silence, their lack of expression. In the old Westerns back home, the crowd at a hanging always had a festive atmosphere, with children playing, and everyone baying for the blood of the condemned. But the drones of White Sun stood in solemn silence, staring with worshipful attention at the Servitor, who waited atop the platform.

  Serena stood there as well, a sour grimace of either illness or unhappiness marring her features.

  Good. Let her suffer. He hoped she had boils or hemorrhoids and maybe the flu to go with it.

  “Up,” the mahavan ordered.

  Reluctantly, William dragged himself up the stairs. At the top he swayed again, and nausea curdled his stomach. It took him a few seconds, and he worried he might topple over, but Jake steadied him until he could recover his balance. William nodded his thanks and stepped forward to where the mahavan indicated.

  The Servitor spoke to the silent crowd, his voice booming through some trick of acoustics or his use of asra. “Ours is a culture formed by the instructions of Lord Shet, and amongst his holy declarations is the notion that all should know their place and give way to those of greater worth. Should anyone, mahavan or drone, strike someone of greater rank, that person’s life is forfeit.”

  The last part sounded like a quote, and the crowd finally responded, clapping and shouting with rapturous applause.

  The Servitor held up his hands, calling for quiet. “Which is why we are assembled this afternoon. Last night, these two men broke that law.”

  The Servitor thrust an accusing finger at William and Jake, and the crowd hissed lustily, calling for vengeance.

  “They assaulted one of my foreman, Justin Cardinal,” the Servitor said, “a good man carrying out my will, and through me, that of our Lord Shet. Had such been the extent of what occurred, there would be no need to deliberate on the fate of these two. But events are not so simple. William Wilde and Jacob Ridley are raha’asras, not drones.

  “In fact, one day they may stand before you as mahavans of Sinskrill, noble and upright,” the Servitor continued, “but that day isn’t today, nor was it last night. Today and last night, their station did not truly stand above or below Foreman Cardinal’s. Thus, it is unclear who should have answered to whom, and we find ourselves in a conundrum. I’ve prayed hard on what must be done, and our Lord has answered me. He told me that mercy, his greatest blessing, shall be offered to all who rupture his peace.”

  “Oh, shit,” Jake whispered, and William held in a shudder of fear. He locked his knees. The mercy of Shet was a misnamed abomination.

  “For Foreman Cardinal, mercy allows him to live, but he is no longer a foreman. He will live out his life as a drone, nothing more, nothing less. But for a potential raha’asra, one who might hold the great responsibilities of a mahavan, a more severe judgment is required. One of these men will be lashed, the one who instigated the melee, but not the other, since he merely sought to defend his friend.”

  Murmurs arose at his words, and William shared a look of horror with Jake. He had no idea what a lashing meant, but like everything else on the island, it sounded awful.

  The Servitor held up his hands again. “It is an uncommon justice akin to stripping, the same mercy offered to those who fail their Tempering. But rather than cull his lorethasra, we will cull his body. It won’t break him, but he will know pain, and with it, justice.”

  He gestured, and the young mahavan who had hauled William and Jake out of the prison stepped forward, his face pious and severe, but when no one could see, a vicious smile distorted his features.

  “My son, the noble Sherlock Carpenter, Prime of Village Paradiso, shall be the one to administer justice upon this man, Jake Ridley.”

  William’s stomach fell. He remembered the Servitor’s promise to hurt Jake. “Lash me,” William begged. Broken-bodied though he was, he knew he was still stronger than Jake.

  Sherlock addressed the Servitor, his eyes wide with surprise. “My liege?”

  The Servitor clapped approval. “What bravery William Wilde shows,” he shouted. “It is that bravery that proves the judgment of Lord Shet. The brave should be spared the foolish decisions of their lessers.” He nodded to Sherlock.
“Begin!”

  Sherlock faced Jake, not bothering to hide a nasty grin. A single motion, and Jake’s clothes shredded off him. “Now we bring you merciful justice,” Sherlock whispered.

  Jake’s screams began at once. William watched, wide-eyed with horror. He wanted to spin away from the sight, to hide his face and cover his ears, but he didn’t. Instead, he made himself watch. He had to remember this. Evil had to be faced.

  Jake’s skin glowed, a silver luminescence bright enough to light the entire courtyard. It persisted, and Jake’s scream seemed to go on and on. The brilliance lessened, but the torment didn’t end. Jake’s skin grew translucent. His bones, blood vessels, and organs became visible.

  Serena’s heart bled. Jake . . . What had she done to him? Sherlock might wield the braid, but it had been her actions that had allowed this to come to pass.

  The screams went on, and something inside her shattered. Serena knew she would never forget this moment. She didn’t want to. It should haunt her for all the days of her life. Punishment for the evil she’d perpetrated. But no one could know her heartbreak. She leaned on Isha’s teaching, keeping her visage blank and uncaring, but her soul wept.

  A closed-off box in her mind broke, one in which she’d stored away the truth: Sinskrill could never be home. Evil imbued the heart of this place, included in every aspect of its design, from the lack of anything resembling familial love and devotion to the enslavement of those like William, Jake, and Travail, all the way down to the stripping of the drones. Sinskrill was a sadistic prison.

  Serena could no longer remain here. And she’d already decided that Selene wouldn’t be raised here. She had to break all of them free of this place.

  William saw Jake’s heart pounding within his distended chest. A bulge like a balloon filled with gas rolled down his abdomen as if something sought to push its way out of him. A rank smell hit the platform. Jake’s bowels had emptied.

  William’s outrage and fury grew. This was no mercy, no justice, and he vowed to pay these people back for what they were doing to Jake, to kill every last mahavan if necessary. And he would start with the Servitor, his son, Sherlock, and Serena. He’d kill them all.

  Jake’s cries grew hoarse as his voice gave way, and he panted. His eyes shut tight.

  “Enough!” a deep voice roared.

  Jake’s screams of pain broke off, and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

  William searched for whoever had spoken. The sight meeting his eyes made him blink in disbelief.

  Kohl Obsidian had been huge, but this black-furred figure with horns curling off its head was something else entirely. The creature’s white, iris-less eyes seemed to glow, and his heavy jaw appeared clenched in resolution. “This one is mine,” he declared. “He is not to be damaged any further.”

  “This is justice, Travail,” the Servitor said. “It is not in your purview.”

  William stopped listening. He stumbled to Jake’s side and rolled him over. His friend stared sightlessly at the sky. William pressed an ear to Jake’s chest, praying he wasn’t dead. Seconds of quiet seemed to pass before a ragged breath and a distant heartbeat reached him. William almost sobbed with relief.

  Jake lived.

  William cradled his friend’s head in his lap, at a loss for what to do next.

  The disagreement between the Servitor and the creature—it had to be the troll—continued.

  “This may be justice,” Travail said, “but it does not supersede my own authority as Isha to these two bishans. Only I can punish them.”

  The Servitor shook his head. “No. Even you serve at Shet’s discretion.”

  “And only an Isha can decipher Shet’s will when it comes to the judgment of a bishan.”

  “Not when your bishans attack my foreman.”

  “Your foreman attacked my bishan first, after denying him sustenance.”

  The Servitor grew still.

  The troll continued. “Also amongst Lord Shet’s instructions is this: ‘He who denies his brother sustenance is a coward and a thief. Lose him a finger for his selfishness.’” Travail’s voice held a trace of mockery.

  “I had not been made aware of former Foreman Cardinal’s transgression,” the Servitor said, a lie that even William could discern.

  “Then I leave you to administer more appropriate justice to your former foreman while I will take possession of my bishans. But only after this one—” Travail pointed to Jake “—is healed of what you ordered. See to it, and ensure no further harm befalls him.” His glowing, white eyes intensified in brightness before flashing once, and their brilliance dulled. “That is my judgment.”

  “I’ll see to it myself,” the Servitor said, sounding strangely humbled . . . even fearful.

  WORKS AND HEALING

  March 1987

  * * *

  Shortly after Serena passed her Tempering, Adam had taken her on as his shill, one of the first things he taught her was sailing. From the very first lesson she’d loved it. The wide-open sea, the wind sweeping past, the salty spray, but more than anything else the heady sense that anything was possible, even freedom. After that first lesson, Serena had taken every chance she had to get out on the water.

  For her shill pilgrimage, the project needed to prove her worthiness to advance to the rank of bishan, she had refurbished an old dhow, a single-masted, thin-hulled vessel of ancient design. Some might have thought her decision a risky one, but Isha had believed otherwise. He’d guided her, telling her that any shill could learn to create fire or cause an earthquake, but mahavans were craftsmen as well as warriors. In the end, repairing the dhow had proven to be a wise choice.

  Following Serena’s success in her bishan pilgrimage—bringing in William and Jake—and earning the rank of mahavan, Isha had granted her ownership of the dhow. Unfortunately, during their months in the Far Abroad, with no one to care for the small boat, rot had set in. While Serena could have repaired it in a few weeks, she’d never found time to set right what wind and saltwater—the twin banes of any ship’s existence—had ruined. Weather or work had always interfered.

  Today, though, Serena had no obligations in her way. Today, with the weather unseasonably warm, she had every intention of working on her dhow.

  She’d hauled the small boat onto the beach and lashed her into a wooden housing. It was where her father found her.

  “Work is coming along well?” he asked.

  Serena stopped her repairs and bowed to him. It didn’t matter that he was her father. Before all else, he was the Servitor.

  “It never ends when it comes to a boat,” she said.

  “Very true.” The Servitor nodded. “But take pleasure in the work . . .”

  “. . . and your heart will know contentment,” Serena said, finishing the quote from Shet’s Counsel.

  “You kept up with your studies,” the Servitor said, sounding pleased. His broad features shifted into an unexpected smile.

  “Isha accepted nothing less than perfection,” Serena explained, ducking her head at the Servitor’s praise. Strange how much her father’s admiration pleased her, especially given how many days she’d spent hating the old crocodile who masqueraded as a man.

  “Look at me, child,” the Servitor said. “In this moment I am not the Servitor. I am your father.”

  Serena did as instructed, hoping her surprise at his acknowledgement of their kinship didn’t show.

  He laughed. “Your face . . . Normally, no emotion crosses it, but in this you are betrayed. I should take you to task.”

  He maintained a pleasant smile, but Serena’s heart raced. Betrayed. A word only one rung removed from ‘treachery’. How could her father have seen the treason in her heart?

  “Ease your mind and forgive an old man’s humor,” her father said with a chuckle. “I know you were surprised by my admission of our familial ties. Nothing more.”

  Serena laughed, hoping it didn’t sound as nervous as she felt. “No forgiveness is required, my
liege.”

  The Servitor’s eyes narrowed. “Did I not tell you that in this moment I am your father?”

  Serena cursed her lapse, and the fear surged once more. “Forgive me, father,” she said.

  His frown erased. “No forgiveness is required, daughter,” he said, an echo of her earlier words. “I am your father and no one else’s.”

  “What about Sherlock and Devon?” Serena asked.

  “We all know their ties to me are a fiction. They carry not a drop of my blood, nor did I have a hand in raising them.”

  “But they are your sons,” Serena said, daring to contradict him.

  He tsked in annoyance. “Tradition dictated their adoption when I made them village Primes, but I have no deep affection for either of them. Only you provide me hope.” He uncharacteristically hesitated. “And in time, perhaps Selene as well.”

  Serena allowed her confusion to show. “I don’t understand.”

  “Adam—your Isha—and I share the same father,” he said. “But he has no natural children of his own, and only two adopted youth. Both failed their shill pilgrimages, a great disappointment, and both were stripped into drones.” He sounded vindictively pleased rather than sad. “Their failures had me worried for our bloodline.” Again, her father smiled in pride. “But then you came along and achieved magnificence. Do you know how rare it is for the natural child of a Servitor to become a mahavan? It’s uncommon enough to merit note.”

  “I am glad to have brought you joy,” Serena said. She bent her head but allowed her father to see her pleased smile even as she understood that it hadn’t been her achievements the old crocodile had come to celebrate. It was his own.

  “Bending your head just then, you very much remind me of your broodmare. You remember her?”

  Broodmare. Her birth mother. Her true mother. Cinnamon. “I do,” Serena said.

  “You are every bit as beautiful and graceful as she, and more importantly, you have become a mahavan of note. I am proud of you. I have a father’s pride in your accomplishments.”