by David Estes
“I—” The thought of his mother should’ve sent a pang of sadness through him, but instead he felt nothing. The truth was, he didn’t even know his mother. And when she’d died—when his condition had killed her—he was a newborn babe, as unaware of what was happening as a raindrop was of splashing into a puddle. “Yes, it’s still just a chair.”
“You little wretch,” his aunt growled, stalking toward him. She raised the other chair leg threateningly, and then swung it, aiming it for his shoulder.
He acted on instinct, thrusting his arm out. The wooden stick stopped. He stared at his gloved hand, which had caught his aunt’s hand, preventing her from completing the blow.
He could feel the warmth of her skin through the glove. No, wait. It was more than that. He could feel her skin against his. It felt—it felt—
Wonderful.
And terrible.
“Oh gods,” she murmured, pulling back sharply, her eyes flicking from her hand to his. “What have you done?”
For a moment Chavos was confused, but then he noticed a sliver of pale skin shining from a tear in his glove. He stared at it, mesmerized by the look of his own flesh, the way it resembled the crack in the shutters, when sunlight shone through the window in the morning.
His aunt backed away further, a strangled groan rising from deep in her throat. “First your mother, and now me. You’re a demon, boy. A demon.”
He was a boulder and her words were pebbles. It’s not my fault I was born this way, he thought as he stepped around her.
He left, never returning to see what had happened to her, though rumors of a great plague raging through the city sprung up a few days later.
Only they weren’t rumors.
Five years later (Circa 529)
He no longer thought of himself as Chavos. No, that person had died along with his aunt. The Calypsians had given him many names, but his favorite was the Beggar, so that’s what he called himself.
Of course, no one really knew who he was. That was another effect of his tattooya. He could float through the city and barely be noticed, even garbed in his strange attire—long cloak, face mask, gloves, tall boots. And those who did notice him couldn’t seem to recall him afterwards, not his appearance or the way he walked or anything.
I am a ghost. I am a Beggar. Unnoticed. Unwanted. Unimportant.
The plague had torn through Calyp for four long years, reaching as far as the Citadel. Though it was his aunt who had apparently left their home shortly after he had and run through the city ranting and grabbing people, infecting them, the Beggar took responsibility for each and every one of their deaths, which numbered in the hundreds, if not thousands.
Empress Riza Sandes, named after the City of the Rising Sun, had perished a year into the plague. Her eldest daughter, Sun, had won the empire four years ago, defeating both of her sisters, Windy and Viper, in hand to hand combat in the arena.
I am the Beggar. I am a murderer.
And then, as swiftly as the plague had arose, it vanished. Those quarantined had been sent to an uninhabited island in Dragon Bay, left to eventually succumb to the disease. In the last year, talk of the plague had dwindled, though he still heard his various nicknames mentioned in idle gossip, many people claiming to have seen him in alleyways, lurking in the shadows.
Since his aunt’s death, the Beggar had not had skin to skin contact with another human being. He didn’t know if it was luck or careful practice, or a function of the ethereal manner in which he could pass through the city unnoticed; regardless, he was glad for it.
Sitting with his back against the wall, sweating beneath his thick clothing, the Beggar thought about all the deaths he’d caused. People he’d never met. Strangers. In some ways, that felt worse than what he’d done to his aunt, to his mother.
I don’t want to kill again. Never again. Please, gods, please let me just live…
Why?
The question came out of nowhere, as it often did, pounding through his head like a slow drumbeat—why…why…why…why?
Why do I want to live?
Though he hated to admit it, he had hope for himself. It felt selfish, this hope, considering all the pain and suffering he had caused. And yet he clung to it like a beetle to a palm frond under the onslaught of a summer storm. Hiding in plain sight, he listened to the stories told in alehouses and marketplaces and on the streets of Calypso. Tales of the tattooya-bearers, Southron gods in human form who had come to save them all, to help them win the civil war with Phanes, and then the whole of the Four Kingdoms. Even the empress’s second oldest daughter, Fire, bore a tattooya, the firemark. She was loved by her people because of it. They thought she would be their savior, when she came of age.
When the Beggar heard those stories, he felt connected to the other marked people. Can I be like them? Can I do something good with my curse?
In those moments, he felt the opposite of the way he’d felt on the day he’d infected his aunt. He felt like he had a purpose, a reason for living.
He felt hope, like a flame burning inside his chest.
I have a role to play in this world, he thought. He wanted it to be the truth, more than anything else.
Someone flicked a coin into the small leather box he’d set before him when he sat down. It clinked amongst a handful of other coins he’d received so far. They were mostly coppers, but still… “Thank you,” he murmured automatically, still lost in his thoughts.
Strong hands grabbed him, pulling him upwards, slamming him against the wall, causing stars to burst across his vision. The smell of smoke and onions assaulted his nostrils as hot breath splashed across his mask, brushing his exposed lips. “Don’t fight it and this will all go easier,” his attacker hissed.
He heard the jingle of coins as someone else presumably scooped up his leather box and made off with it. The hands released him and he fell, collapsing to his knees.
He blinked, trying to restore his vision.
He squinted as light poured in, obliterating the stars. As expected, his coins were gone. He scanned the street, but the thieves had disappeared. Several sets of eyes were focused in his direction, but the people seemed confused, as if they weren’t quite sure what they were seeing. He didn’t know what he looked like to them, exactly. A smudge of gray against the tan stones perhaps? A shadow in a place where there shouldn’t be one? It didn’t matter. They wouldn’t remember any details about him.
Something felt strange, however.
He felt…cool.
The wind was blowing, yes, but usually that didn’t help him much, due to his thick clothing and face mask. And yet, the skin on each side of his chest felt cooler as the sweat seemed to dry. The coolness seemed to originate from the exact places where the attacker’s strong hands had grabbed him, the man’s fingers poking into his flesh.
Oh no. Ohnoohnoohnoohnoohno!
He looked down.
A wail tore from his throat when he saw the holes torn in his shirt, twin spots of pale flesh staring out at him.
The plague had returned to Calypso.
Three years later (Circa 532)
Countless people had died because of him. Were still dying. Each time the Beggar’s heart pulsed in his chest, he wondered whether someone else had died.
Though plague victims continued to be quarantined on Dragon’s Breath, the empire’s efforts had done little to stem the spread of the disease.
The Beggar woke up each morning and found a looking glass or a puddle or a water trough, forcing himself to stare at his own reflection. And each day he made a choice not to kill himself. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, only that his tattooya would pulse from his skin, staying his hand.
One day the sun was shining brightly. The Beggar was on the move, heading for a part of Calypso he hadn’t been to in a while, hoping for a change of scenery. As he approached a main thoroughfare from the safety of an alleyway, the trio of pyramids rose up in the distance, towering over the sandstone dwellings most citizens lived in.
A royal cavalcade was moving through the center of the street, pushing the crowds to the dust-piled edges of the buildings.
Several of the horsemen steered their steeds precariously close to the crowd and the onlookers were forced to jump back. One of them was too slow, nearly getting himself trampled, falling backward in a cloud of dust. Unlike most people in the crowd, he was light-featured and looked out of place amongst the Calypsians.
There was something familiar about the man, who wasn’t much older than the Beggar…
The man turned, coughing out a wad of brown spit.
The Beggar froze. Him. The blond-haired boy from the dusty field that day, all those years ago, the one with the girl who shouldn’t have been able to walk, the one who had wisps of light trailing from his chest. Though the Beggar hadn’t thought of that day in many years, the memory of it was as vivid as a spark in the dark…
It was the day he’d accidentally killed his aunt and released the plague.
Yes, he was certain it was the same boy, though he’d grown up a lot since then, as had the Beggar. Somehow, over time and distance, he still felt inexplicably connected to this man, though he’d never met him before in his life.
This feeling spurred him forward. With each step, he felt as if his fate was finally calling him. Or at least part of his fate. For the first time in his life he knew he was in the right place at the exact right time. This is why I’m not dead, he thought. He approached the boy from behind. “Are you injured?” he asked. His voice, which hadn’t been used in a long time, sounded like that of a stranger to his own ears.
The man said he was not, raising an eyebrow as he took in the Beggar’s odd appearance. Wait. He can see me. He can really see me. Not like the others.
The realization seemed to validate his purpose for being here. He knew what to do.
He extended his hand to help him up.
After a brief pause, the man accepted his assistance and allowed the Beggar to pull him to his feet. There was a brief and awkward exchange of pointless pleasantries in which the Beggar refused to give his name, and then the man said:
“I’m Roan.”
“You can see me?” Please please please…
Roan squinted, and it was clear he thought he was dealing with someone who’d lost their mind. But that didn’t matter, didn’t matter, didn’t matter, because— “Yes. I can see you.”
The faintest streak of light zipped from Roan’s chest, and the Beggar smiled beneath his hood.
I’m not alone, he thought.
3: Heinrich Gäric
Somewhere north of the Mournful Mountains- Circa 10
When, after three long years at sea, Captain Heinrich Gäric had arrived on the shores of this new land a decade earlier, he’d been full of excitement and anticipation. That day had been warm and sunny, the salty breeze blowing gentle waves against the rocky embankment. A new world to explore!
Now he felt nothing but cold. Not the cold of an icy winter in northern Crimea—he’d experienced several of those—but a cold that seemed to burrow into his bones, taking up residence. On this frozen tundra next to an enormous ice-sheathed body of water they’d appropriately named Frozen Lake, Heinrich wondered whether he’d ever feel warm again.
“We should turn back,” Ousted said, staring out into the blizzard from the large command tent they’d erected just before the storm had moved in. Ousted was a grizzled veteran explorer with pockmarked cheeks and perpetually chapped lips. He was also Heinrich’s right hand man whose advice he didn’t take lightly. Over more than thirty years of expeditions together, they’d seen things other men could only dream of, places that were untouched by human feet, unseen by human eyes. This was, possibly, one of those very places.
And Heinrich was not the kind of man to give up easily.
No, he was the appointed royal explorer for King Peter Streit, ruler of Crimea and Conquerer of the World. Heinrich had a duty to uphold and a reputation to maintain. “Gather the men,” he said. “I have an announcement to make.”
After Heinrich’s decision had been announced, he lounged in his tent, trying to sleep. A rustle outside drew his attention, just as his eyes were closing. “I’m awake,” he growled, so the visitor wouldn’t feel uncomfortable having to wake him.
“It’s me,” a voice said. It was the voice of his only son, Tomas, a strong lad and solid seaman of eighteen. Over the last decade and the three years at sea preceding it, Tomas had grown up, while his mother had died of scurvy during the voyage. Though it had been a difficult time for both of them, it hadn’t doused the fire for adventure that always seemed to glow inside the boy. He’s too much like me, Heinrich often mused.
“Come in.”
The thick, triple-skinned tent flap fluttered and then pushed inward, releasing a torrent of icy air and a flurry of snowflakes inside. Tomas dove in and fought the tent for a moment before resealing it, cutting off the cold air. He turned to his father, holding a lantern to the side, careful not to shine it in the expedition leader’s eyes. “I won’t leave,” the boy said.
Heinrich sighed. He had expected this. “You don’t have a choice.”
“Because you’re my father?”
“No, because I’m your commander, appointed by the king himself.”
Tomas set the lantern down and waved his hands from side to side. “What king? I don’t see any king in these lands. All I see is you, the true leader of the colonies. You delivered us here. You conquered these lands. The king might as well be somewhere on one of the moons.”
Heinrich tried not to laugh, despite the treasonous tone to his son’s words. This side of him came from his mother, and he’d heard her speak similar words on a dozen other expeditions over the years. She’d wanted him to settle down somewhere and start a family, forget about the king and his lust for land and war. They’d compromised and he’d given her a son while discovering a chain of uninhabited tropical islands in the southern Crimean Sea. That was eighteen years ago, however, a lifetime ago. And this was now, and he needed to stop this kind of talk before it got his son into trouble. Rather than a stiff rebuke, he chose humor as his sword of rebuttal.
“I’ll send a message to the king informing him of your position.”
His son was not amused, his broad Gäric jaw stiffening. “It’s not funny, Father.”
“You’re right. Talk of treason is in no way funny.”
“It’s not treason; it’s reality.”
“You want to claim independence from the crown?”
“Not today. But someday. Yes. This land is too large to be governed from across the sea. King Streit must be made to understand that.”
Heinrich closed his eyes. Opened them. “You know I don’t care about any of that. All I want is to explore.”
“But not with me,” Tomas said, sulking now. It was a stark reminder that though his son had the rugged build of a man grown now, he still had a lot of maturing to do.
The truth was, Heinrich had been willing to drag his family with him on a lot of dangerous voyages because it was simply too hard to be away from them so much of the time. His own selfishness had cost him his wife, the mother of his son, the love of his life. His love for exploration had taken precedence over the safety of his own family.
Not anymore. Continuing north through the blizzard was simply too dangerous, and he wouldn’t risk his son’s life. But he couldn’t tell him that. Not only would it only make Tomas more adamant about staying with the expedition, but it would make him feel like a child, something he wasn’t willing to do, not when his son had proven his mettle time and time again over the last few years.
No, a different tact would be necessary to convince his son to leave and return to the first city they’d established in these lands, the burgeoning colony known as Knight’s End.
“You are my only heir, Tomas,” he said. “If you are serious about one day seeking independence for the colonies, then at least one of us must survive, and it needs to be you. My heart is simply
not in it the way yours is.”
Tomas raised his eyebrows, surprised. It was clearly not the response he had expected. And though it wasn’t a lie, exactly, it also wasn’t the full truth. I have to protect you from my own stupidity.
“Fine. I’ll lead half of the exploration party back to Knight’s End, as you commanded, Father. But I won’t wait for you there. New ships bearing colonists arrive every fortnight, and we need to push southward and build new colonies to accommodate them all. With your blessing and authority, I will lead them.”
“You have my authority,” Heinrich said. At least it will be warmer there. “Tell them we’ve gone to explore the northern Hinterlands.”
“I will.” They clasped hands, and then Tomas slipped away, back into the cold, dark night.
Tomas and his men left early the next day, before Heinrich had awoken.
Till we meet again, he thought.
The remaining company pushed northward, along the western edge of Frozen Lake, the going getting slower and slower as the drifts of snow grew thicker and thicker. Snow fell like torrential rain, whipping against their faces, blinding them. The cold seeped through scarf and cloak, soaking them to the skin. If they didn’t die from exhaustion, they would almost certainly die from exposure if the storm didn’t abate. Still, Heinrich dared not adjust his path to the ice-covered body of water, though a number of his men continued to eye the lake hungrily.
“This is madness,” Ousted eventually said, when they were forced to halt completely. The snow was up to their waists now, and pushing through it was nearly impossible. “I have followed you through gnarled jungles and across vast oceans. Together, we have conquered burnt deserts and scaled steep cliffs. Never have I questioned your judgment. But now I must, for this place isn’t meant for exploration. What do you hope to discover? There is nothing here but ice and snow. It is a frozen hell we find ourselves in, and I fear if we continue there shall be no return.”
