by RJ Blain
“It isn’t necessary. I’ll take care of his body.”
“Do see if there is any sign of who he was as you do so,” Alphege ordered.
“And if there isn’t?”
“Add a tally to the book of the nameless.”
Blaise stepped out of the Archbishop’s way and bowed his head, as was proper and expected. “Very well.”
“Report to my inner study at first light,” the man ordered. “I’ve an assignment for you.”
“Yes, your Eminence,” he replied. Alphege ascended the stairs and halted at the top. Blaise looked up to meet the man’s dark blue eyes.
“You did well protecting the Heart, Child of God. You always rise above your call of duty. I will pray that God’s smile is always upon you.”
Blaise acknowledged Alphege’s compliment with a nod. “May He smile on you as well.”
It wasn’t worth trying to convince the Archbishop that Blaise expected at least a scolding when he finally did return to God’s Garden. He hoped he counted as a little too old for a spanking, but He liked surprises.
Blaise hid his grin behind a cough. When Alphege vanished from sight, he turned to the corpse. “What am I going to do with you?”
His prey didn’t reply. A sneeze erupted from Blaise, so strong that he staggered back and fell on the stairs. Grumbling curses, he sniffled and tried to will the itch away.
Getting back to his feet, he walked to the body and knelt down. The Citizen’s soul was gone, and the Gates to the Gardens hadn’t opened. He shook his head.
“You really need to learn some moderation, Lucin. How many souls must you devour before you’re satisfied? Aurora’s gone. Mikael, too. Not even having the Heart will bring her back, and it isn’t going to lure your brother back to your side,” he muttered.
Blaise’s voice wouldn’t reach Lucin. It took so little of the divine’s power to destroy a mortal’s soul that Blaise doubted the other divine even noticed the mortal had been cursed with his obsession for God’s Daughter.
Sightless eyes stared at him; the right, one the same sky blue as Blaise’s, while the left was the crimson of fresh blood.
Lucin’s eyes.
“You could be more considerate of them,” Blaise chided, reaching out to close the dead man’s eyes.
Like so many times before, there’d be no funeral for a failed thief.
He didn’t spend long checking the body for something to identify who he’d once been. Those who touched the Hand of God belonged to the Emperor, and the Emperor was no fool.
Whispering a Word, Blaise summoned divine fire to purify the catacombs, leaving nothing behind on the stone, not even ash.
~*~
Blaise hungered, and gnawing on the bread and cheese pilfered from the pantry awakened his need for something more substantial. The bell in the tallest spire of the cathedral tolled once to mark the conclusion of the services he had skipped. He looked up at the ceiling with a scowl. Soon, those seeking sustenance to tide them over until dawn would invade his hiding place.
Gnawing on the crust of the driest loaf of bread he could find, Blaise considered his dilemma. His frustration boiled within him, spurring him to hunt, but he couldn’t reveal his true self, not yet. Forcing a neutral expression took all of his will.
If the few he passed in the halls noticed his hurried stride and his lack of elegance, he wasn’t sure that he cared. Blaise was content to let the mortals worry.
It might wake them to the truth that God wasn’t the only one watching them in the night. The desire to shed his disguise roused again, until his skin crawled with his need. Blaise wondered if it would be worth His wrath to see the expressions of the humans when they realized there was more than a little truth to the myths of the church.
Blaise swept down the halls to one of the side doors, glaring at the lock until it opened without him forcing it to do his bidding through the use of Speech. It door clicked locked behind him. Blaise’s stomach growled, and he wrinkled his nose. “Yes, yes,” he muttered.
His stomach didn’t listen.
One day, Blaise would have to find out who had come up with the fool’s notion that He didn’t approve of His clergy eating meat. Then he’d find that soul, pluck its rose from God’s Garden, scatter every petal across the mortal coil, and piece it back together after a hundred years.
At least Blaise didn’t need to hide on his way off the cathedral grounds. He doubted he could control his temper if he had to skulk away. The devout attending the midnight mass poured out of the sanctuary and headed to the streets, too absorbed in their conversations of the service to notice or care he wore a white coat, which resembled the military’s darker gray under the cover of night.
If he wanted real food, he needed to cross the city, out of the Church Ward, to where the Citizens were less likely to care about the color of his coat and more about the crystals in his pocket.
The lights of a nearby tavern taunted Blaise. Even the brothels close to the cathedral didn’t dare to disobey the tenants of the church. No one had made any mention in over a hundred years of a clergyman going out for a nip, but that didn’t ease the fear of the consequences of leading one of God’s children astray.
Somehow, Blaise resisted the urge to snort his disgust.
If he wanted sustenance of any sort, he’d have to wander closer to the Imperial Ward than he liked, but at least he could calm his appetite without preying on some fool of a human.
Maybe Genevieve would humor him. It’d been several weeks since his last visit. The sigh escaped before he could stop it, and Blaise let himself get lost in the shuffle of people heading home. One of these days, he’d be able to enjoy her without the sour taste of a failed hunt in his mouth. With a destination in mind, he walked with more purpose.
Many moved out of Blaise’s way without noticing his presence, but a few cast curious glances his way, which he answered with a smile.
He wasn’t sure what they saw when their eyes met his, but they didn’t stare for long, which made his smile widen. Anticipation fluttered within him, but Blaise wasn’t sure if it was for Genevieve, for a real meal, or over how easily the humans bent to his will.
Genevieve didn’t back down like other mortals; her defiance and acceptance of Blaise’s stare was as intoxicating and sweet as wine.
She was one of the few mortals with true fire in her eyes.
When her time came to an end, he hoped her rose was yellow or white. Maybe, if He was in a good mood, the rarest blue.
Until then, Blaise looked forward to watching how bright her existence burned before it was snuffed out.
The shadow of the elevated aqueduct fell over him, with moonlight streaming through the arched supports. The circular Arena dominated most of the Arena Ward, and the flow of people moved toward it. Passing by the Arena suited him; if he found a fight among the lesser Citizens, not even the military would question a bishop working to keep the peace, even if Blaise bloodied his knuckles a bit in the process.
The road dipped beneath one of the arches supporting the aqueduct. The old, pale stones sang out as he passed beneath, hundreds of voices chanting in harmony. The sacred Words used to preserve the structure were so loud he winced.
Clapping his hands over his ears wouldn’t help; something as weak as flesh, bone, and blood couldn’t stop His Words. A few around him also grimaced, and he wondered how much the humans perceived. Was it a buzz to them, or did the echoes of the deceased Speakers who had helped create the city long ago somehow reach them?
Blaise hurried along the main street circling the entire plateau, the noise fading after he walked several blocks. It left behind a dull ache in the back of his head. He slowed, stepped to the side of the cobbled way, and stared back at the arch.
Something excited the remnants of souls long since called back to God’s Garden. Not even Blaise knew why the echoes of Speech remained, but whatever had excited them was something he couldn’t sense.
A sneeze caught him by surprise.
The hint of roses lingering in the air was tainted by the bitter imprint of the countless deaths within the Arena. The metallic undertones of fresh blood set his stomach grumbling.
The scent didn’t surprise him, not so close to the Arena, but the structure was dark and silent, the iron gates closed and guarded by two young men little more than boys. They stared at Blaise as he walked by.
“Father,” one of them called out.
Blaise frowned and turned to face them. “Good evening, Citizens.” Neither noticed he didn’t offer God’s blessings to them. “How may I be of service?”
“We’re on orders to ask someone of the Church to come look at a slave brought in this evening, Father.”
Blaise wanted to scowl, but settled with dipping his head down in acknowledgment of the words. He dropped his gaze to the white tassels of the cadets. “It is our duty to serve all children of God who are in need,” he replied. “I would be pleased to bring God’s blessing to this house.”
The Arena needed it, and as if sensing his loathing of the place, the lads stared at him with wide eyes. They glanced at each other before turning to wrestle open the gates. The cadets waved Blaise through, and he obeyed, casting a look over his shoulder toward the Imperial Ward.
As always, Blaise could trust the church or military to find some way to interfere with his plans.
“This way, Father.”
The cadet left behind didn’t say a word. He was led down the stone-paved walkway to the Arena proper.
“Are there games tomorrow?” Blaise asked.
“Yes, Father. You haven’t heard? Catsu will be fighting in all events as a blessing from the Emperor in hopes of a prosperous year. Some are even saying His Imperial Majesty will be making an appearance.”
Blaise rubbed at his temples and tried to will his growing headache to disappear. It didn’t obey. “I’m afraid I’m a bit behind on the Arena gossip,” he said. Each step closer to the tiered, arched, and columned Arena, the more pervasive the stench of death became. Something lurked beneath the stones he trod over, but he couldn’t tell if the presences were ghosts unwilling or to pass through the gates to God’s Garden, or it was an imprint of the countless deaths within the ancient structure.
The ground’s silent cries for the Gardens, for the surge of the divine power accompanying the reclamation of a soul, nipped at his heels. By the time they reached the tunnel descending beneath the Arena, Blaise’s head throbbed.
“I will take you to my sergeant,” the cadet mumbled.
Blaise forced a smile. “Let’s make haste, then. It wouldn’t do to leave your sergeant waiting.”
With a little luck, he could escape the accursed place before he went deaf or insane.
The cadet bowed his head and gestured, obeying the suggestion to hurry. “This way. It isn’t far.”
A maze of corridors dipped beneath the Arena, lined with empty cells, the barred doors cracked open. Sobs echoed in the hall, growing stronger with each step closer to where the sergeant waited. Blaise couldn’t tell if the sounds were real or fragments from those who’d been sentenced to death long ago.
A closed portcullis blocked the hall. Reaching up, the cadet pulled on a cord, which rang a bell on the other side.
A woman clad in a gray coat and ankle-length skirt appeared from a doorway on the other side. A frown tugged at her red-painted lips.
“Sergeant, sir! I’ve brought someone from the church here as you ordered,” the cadet announced.
“So I see,” the woman replied. “Back to your duty, cadet. I’ll handle this from here.”
The boy saluted and fled.
“How may I be of service, Sergeant?” Blaise asked, careful to keep his tone neutral and his hands clasped in front of him where she could see them. He dipped his head low enough to be polite.
“None of your preaching to me, Bishop. I’ve a few new ones I want ready for tomorrow. Make them useful. Come,” she said, turning the winch to open the portcullis.
“As you wish, Sergeant,” he replied, ducking beneath the metal spikes as soon as the gate was lifted high enough for him to pass beneath. It crashed down behind him, snagging the hem of his coat. His collar cut off his breath. When the fabric didn’t tear, he wheezed. Twisting around, Blaise drew his lip up in a snarl and snapped out a few Words.
The hem separated into the original threads it was made of, pooling around the spikes embedded in the stone. He jerked his shoulder and the tangled mess came loose. Coughing eased some of the ache in his throat. Focusing on the image of the coat’s true and proper shape, he Spoke. One by one, the threads wove together until the hem was restored.
Blaise turned to the sergeant and offered her his best smile. She paled when he narrowed his eyes. “Please do lead the way, Sergeant.”
Waiting until he knew she was aware of him staring, he lowered his gaze to admire her figure.
Her face turned a bright red in the lantern light. Pivoting on a heel, she marched down the hall. Her skirts billowed out around her in sharp contrast to the way her tight-fitted coat clung to her lithe frame.
“We’ve one with an unmarked collar I’d like you to look at first, fresh in from the guards,” the woman said, stopping at a cell door. Pulling out a ring of keys from beneath her coat, she unlocked it and stepped aside. In one smooth motion, she drew her sword and waited. “We need to know who owns him and his number. The usual.”
“Is this slave dangerous, then?” he asked, grasping hold of one of the bars and pulling the door open. The woman shrugged and didn’t respond.
The light from the hall lanterns didn’t penetrate far into the gloom of the cell. Blaise stepped in and stared down at the still figure lying on the floor. While not tall enough to be a man, the boy was too well developed and too muscular to be young, either. Blaise tilted his head. Maybe fourteen or fifteen, if his guess was right.
Kneeling awoke aches in Blaise’s legs and back.
“Well?”
Blaise ignored the woman, responding with the same silence she had answered him with, focusing on the slave in front of him. Instead of the copper, bronze, or silver collars he frequently saw, the polished circlet of gold gleamed in the light. Unevenly cut locks of dark hair framed a smooth jaw and tanned face. Blood darkened the torn singlet. Blaise reached down and touched the boy’s throat.
The heartbeat beneath his fingers pounded strong and even. He slid his hand down to touch the collar and listened for the voices of its creator.
Silence.
“There are no secrets in a world watched by God,” he Spoke in a whisper.
The collar burned beneath Blaise’s hand and its flames devoured his every thought in a fury before everything went dark.
~*~
Sand rained down on Terin from the cracks in the stones above. The beat of hundreds of stomping feet drummed through him, dictating the thud of his heart. Each and every breath ached in his chest and roused the pain of his bruised ribs.
The memory of waking eluded him, as did his arrival at the cell packed full of children. Terin’s hands were bound by manacles with a thick chain connecting him to the small boys on each side of him.
The weight of another shackle around his throat sought to cut off his breath, its sharp edge biting the tender skin beneath his chin. The chains rattled with the shifting, fidgeting motion of the children staring at one another with wide eyes and pale faces.
The crowd overhead roared its approval at something, and more sand fell down on Terin. His eyes itched and burned, and he blinked away the grit.
Standing at the portcullis, a gray-clad guard stared out through the tunnel at the sand-filled pit beyond. The man whooped his satisfaction, echoing the cheering Citizens above.
“When they take you in,” someone whispered from the bench opposite him, “grab a weapon—any’ll do. Don’t wait for them to come to you. It’ll be too late.”
Terin glanced over at the dark-haired boy and frowned at the bronze collar encircling the slave’s t
hroat. When he went to look away, dark eyes met his.
“He’ll kill you first,” the bronze-collared slave muttered.
“Who?” Terin asked.
“You.”
“Who will kill me first?” Terin stared down at his hands. Sand caked where he bled, and where it didn’t, a pale, yellow dust coated him. It wasn’t quite enough to hide the scars criss-crossing his skin. Only a few of them were acquired from the Arena, but he didn’t want any of the his fellow slaves to know he’d experienced the events before and survived.
“Catsu,” was the reply. “Have you been living under a rock, goldie? Maybe you were discarded for your stupidity. Steer clear of him. I’ll show you how to survive the arena. If you’re smart, you’ll do what I say.”
“What do we do? I can’t fight,” a girl whispered, her voice choked with tears. Terin glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. No older than five or six, she clung to the only other girl in the cell. The gold of the older girl’s collar stood out against the blue and black streaks marring her pale skin. Blonde hair draped over the girl’s slim shoulders, covering rags so thin it left little to the imagination.
Dried scabs and bruises showed through the threadbare material.
“Nonsense,” the older girl murmured, her voice soft and pleasant, twisting around to embrace the child. The silver and black tattoo of a pleasure slave marked the center of her back.
Terin shivered at the girl’s faint smile.
“What would you know? I hope you live, girl. When I’m made a Citizen, I’ll buy you as my prize for surviving a year in the arena.” The boy leered, his eyes fixed on the girl’s chest.
The pleasure slave didn’t reply. Terin glanced her way. Hatred burned in her eyes, but her smile didn’t falter. She spoke soothing words to the children on both sides of her.
“I’ll treat you really well,” the bronze-collared slave said. “Just do what you’re told and you’ll survive.”
