by David Estes
He shook his head. He’d never read this one, and he didn’t want it to be spoiled. “Fine,” she said. “Then I’ll tell you the end of your own story instead.” She paused, letting the statement sink in. “In your story, you die.”
She released the book, and his hand jerked back. He didn’t realize he’d been gripping the cover so tightly. As quiet as the wind, she opened the door, slipping out. Before the door closed, however, she called back. “My name is Shanti Parthena Laude,” she said.
The door closed without a sound and she was gone.
Falcon sank back to the floor clutching the book, feeling utterly miserable. Not because she’d spoken of his own death, which truly was inevitable—all men died, after all—but because he knew his life wouldn’t matter, regardless of what he did.
Unlike the stories trapped between the pages of the books he read, his story was one without purpose, without meaning.
His was an empty life.
Seventy-Four
The Southern Empire, Phanes
Jai Jiroux
Axa had been right. Being a crippled slave had its advantages.
The first few days he’d gotten his bearings. Though, when he was Garadia Mine Master, he’d been to the palace in Phanea many times to meet with Emperor Hoza, his movements were always strictly monitored. One didn’t waltz around the palace exploring.
Unless, of course, you were a slave.
Yes, he had duties—none of the guards had even noticed that the same crippled slave that left hadn’t returned—but so long as he did them and kept out of the way, he was left alone. Several of the other slaves, however, had frowned at him, but they said nothing. Even if they knew he wasn’t the real Birdie, they didn’t seem overly concerned about it. Like Axa had said, slaves were moved around all the time.
Unlike the other slaves, Jai wasn’t forced to wear chains, due to his withered arm and leg. His ailments were his chains, sufficient to prevent his escape. Not that he was trying to escape. Though his injuries were very much real—Axa had done his job well—they were beginning to heal somewhat. As it turned out, there were no broken bones, a major stroke of luck. His strength was already returning, and more and more each day he had to fake his limp and awkwardly hanging arm.
All in all, Jai managed to cover a fair portion of the palace, memorizing the layout, the way the narrow slave passages linked up with the major halls and broad corridors used by the royalty and their guards. He did as he was told, delivering washbasins to the slaves charged with cleaning, emptying the dirty ones and refilling them. Occasionally he had to clean, too, spending hours on his hands and knees. Sometimes when he arose, he really felt like a hunchback, his muscles spasming and his spine curled like a question mark. His body was more accustomed to the endless motion of swinging a pick, and he went to bed sore each night.
Most of all, as he worked, as he explored, he looked for Shanti.
Thus far, he hadn’t seen her. He was tempted to ask some of the other slaves, but that would give him away—Birdie apparently didn’t talk much, nor would he ask after another slave. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself unnecessarily. He needed to be a shadow, a ghost.
He didn’t want Falcon Hoza to see it coming when he killed him.
Jai’s plan was simple:
Kill Falcon. Kill Fang. Kill Fox. With the three ruling brothers gone, there would be a moment of confusion and chaos, which he would use to slip away and find Sonika and the other Black Tears, hopefully with Shanti in tow.
From there, they would begin a fullscale revolution. The palace was already abuzz with the return of the Black Tears, who had escaped from slavery in Garadia. Two mines had been hit already, both smaller ones. Both fully liberated. Thus far neither the escaped slaves nor the Tears had been caught. A revolution, Jai thought, relishing the sound of the word in his mind. This time it would be easier. They could rescue slaves from the mines, as Sonika was already doing, starting with the smallest and least protected ones first. Over time, they would grow their numbers, training the people in phen lu, phen ru, and phen sur. Building their army.
Looking back, Jai felt like a naïve fool. Prior to his first attempt to liberate the Garadia slaves, he hadn’t wanted to train them to fight. If they fought, they would die. At least that was his reasoning. Sneaking away was better. Now he knew the truth: Sometimes fighting was the only way to survive.
Now, he lurched down the corridor, hauling a filthy, reeking chamber pot. He would empty it and then bring it back. Only this time he was going to pretend to be confused. For this pot belonged to a lesser noble in the household, but he was going to bring it to the emperor’s quarters, a room he’d only just found in the palace maze.
The mission was simply reconnaissance at this point, but he felt a flutter of excitement at the thought of seeing the emperor’s private space. He longed to stare upon its lavishness, to see the inequality of the world in the form of fine adornments and wealth unmatched.
It would only add logs to the growing fire in his belly.
By the time he finished with the pot and began hobbling back, the sun was creeping down toward the horizon. He longed to stop, to gaze at the beauty of the world, to appreciate a place he had once loved.
He kept his eyes trained forward; many years had passed since he was a boy. If, one day, he managed to free every slave in Phanes, only then would he look upon another sunset and be mesmerized by it.
The outside world fell behind him as he entered the palace, taking a route that wasn’t the most direct, but which would be least likely to get him caught. As he limped, the empty pot jerking to and fro from the grasp of his “lame” arm, his eyes never left his shoes. Not making eye contact was one of the keys to being ignored—both in Garadia and here. For some strange reason, masters saw eye contact as an affront, a challenge, rather than the simple attempt at human connection that it truly was.
It was because of this that Jai didn’t notice the form rounding the corner hurriedly, nearly bumping into him as he passed. His head jerked up and for a moment he forgot himself, his eyes meeting those of the woman who was moving in the opposite direction, her own head twisted around to look at him.
His own eyes widened, while she merely blinked, before turning away and moving on, like a ghost fading away around the next bend.
He almost ran after her, almost made the critical error that she was intelligent and quick-minded enough to avoid. He took one step in her direction and stopped himself. No matter how fast he limped, he wouldn’t catch her, and he couldn’t give up the disguise.
Still, the image of her face, of her night-dark tears on her cheeks, of her coppery hair brushing her soft brown shoulders, burned in his mind like a lit torch.
At long last he’d found her:
Shanti.
After seeing Shanti, Jai forgot the purpose of his mission, staring at the chamber pot dumbly. Had Shanti recognized him, or had she been fooled by his disguise, his red skin? He thought he’d seen recognition in her eyes, but it had been fleeting at best. If she had known it was him, her mastery of her mind and emotions was impressive.
As Jai considered what to do, a guard chose to patrol that particular corridor. “Cripple!” he barked.
Jai’s breath was in his throat. He stared at his feet.
“Are you lost?”
Jai nodded.
The man released an exasperated sigh. “Fools, the lot of you. At least the Dreadnoughter slaves are a clever bunch. You Terans are useless. Back the way you came, turn right, another right, left, you’ll find Lord Dramonos’ quarters. That chamber pot you’re holding, with the Dramonos’ seal? Belongs there.”
Jai nodded, his eyes fixed on his toes as he shuffled around. As he slowly hobbled away, he felt a powerful urge to bolt, but fought it off. Thus far, it was his closest brush with any palace master. He’d have to be more careful going forward.
The next day, Jai was assigned to an important gathering in the palace. His role was t
o be invisible, collecting dirty plates and silverware as they were discarded.
The gala was held in a long hall with an arched glass ceiling. Twice Jai had attended similar events at the emperor’s request due to his prestigious position as Master of Garadia. He’d hated both nights, rubbing shoulders with men and women who he considered to be his enemies. The only solace he had taken was the knowledge that his slave miners were treated better than any others.
This particular gala was of a similar nature, with long tables set up around the walls, covered in the finest foods the empire had to offer. A long, roasted pyzon took up an entire wall, its thick body stripped of scales and mounted on dozens of metal skewers. The head had been kept on, its mouth purposely propped open to reveal its fierce fangs and wide throat, which was more than capable of swallowing a full-size male whole, even if he was wearing armor. Important Phanecians lined up to receive a slab of the snake meat, which was cut by a tall Teran slave with a carving knife. Jai watched the scene for a moment, noticing how none of the wealthy attendees so much as looked at the slave. In less time than it took him to carve each cut of meat, he could stab the knife through one of their hearts, but they didn’t fear him. No, in their eyes, he was broken, of no concern.
Jai gritted his teeth and moved on. Though he kept his head down as he limped through the regaled royalty, he occasionally flicked his eyes up to seek Shanti’s face. After all, he had seen her in the emperor’s corridor, which might mean she would be assigned to his royal events.
His frustration mounted with each trip from the feast room with another stack of dirty dishes for the kitchen. Not only had he not seen Shanti, but the emperor had yet to make an appearance. He’d been in Phanea for more than a week and hadn’t so much as caught a glimpse of Falcon. How could he kill a man he couldn’t find?
When he returned to the hall, however, something had changed. There was a buzz in the air, which he noticed immediately. People were still chattering, but their voices had dropped lower, and all eyes were focused on the front of the room, where two familiar young men sat in large, high-backed chairs, their hands resting casually on armrests. They generally ignored the hubbub, speaking only to each other, waiting to be served.
That’s when he saw her for the second time, her strong, capable form moving nimbly through the room, balancing large plates on the palm of each hand. Shanti handed a plate to each of the younger Hoza brothers, and they didn’t even acknowledge her.
She was the most beautiful woman Jai had ever seen, and she might as well have been a ghost.
With a start, Jai realized he was still staring at her, watching as she spun on her heel, retreating to the food lines. Her eyes found his, and though she once again pretended not to notice him, her eyes gliding past like gusts of wind, this time she winked.
His heart swelled and it was all he could do to keep his feet moving, to gather the next stack of dirty plates. When he returned, he spotted her right away, because she was standing at the focal point of the entire room, handing a plate to one final newcomer.
Emperor Falcon, Jai thought, taking in his enemy in a glance. He and his two brothers were three of a kind with their powdered faces, jeweled scalps and brows, and upright, stern positioning.
The emperor’s lips moved, but Jai was fairly certain he hadn’t spoken, for his brothers didn’t notice. Thank you, he mouthed, the words directed at Shanti. When she turned away, there was no mistaking the shallow smile on her lips.
Jai felt gut-punched. Everything about their interaction went against the standard slave-master system in place. Everything about it was far too casual, familiar.
The truth slapped him in the face and he almost dropped a dish. She’s gotten herself close enough to the emperor to kill him.
Her eyes found his, and this time there was no mistaking the words she mouthed to him. Be careful.
And then she was gone. She didn’t return to the gala that night.
Seventy-Five
The Southern Empire, Phanes
Falcon Hoza
He’d sent for Shanti three nights in a row, asking for her to deliver a sleeping draught to help him rest.
And all three nights, he’d dumped the draught in his chamber pot. Sleep was the last thing he was interested in.
The Teran woman had been all too willing to share her story, dumping it out like a box of broken ceramic figurines, her eyes stabbing daggers of accusation at Falcon the whole time. How her family had been enslaved in Teragon’s capital city when she was just a child. How she’d been dragged from her home, abused, chained to a ship. How her father had been murdered protecting her sister. How her sister had been murdered anyway, her mother taken away from her. How she had escaped, somehow developing immunity to the Slave Master’s powers.
The story was as tragic as the fiction he usually read, and it tugged at his heartstrings all the more because of who was telling it. Though her voice never wavered, her eyes as dry as the Scarra Desert, the pain she still felt was in every word, punctuated by the black tears etched on her cheeks.
When she finally finished her tale, Falcon felt as if nails had been driven into his chest. He always knew his father was a monster, but he’d avoided hearing about what he did as much as possible.
Something else nagged at him—the part about her mother, who was taken away. He also remembered how something about Shanti had been familiar to him, despite the strange tears on her cheeks.
A memory was unchained, breaking free in his mind. He winced visibly. His eyes closed.
“Do my words sorrow you?” Shanti said, cocking her head to the side mockingly. She was fearless, and he wondered if it was because she knew he was weak or if she simply no longer cared what happened to her.
“Yes,” he said, his voice raspy.
“It is one of a million, and there are worse than mine.”
Nails driven on top of nails. “I’m…sorry.” Even as he said it, Falcon knew it was the weakest response of a plethora of weak responses that had sprung to mind.
“Sorry?” Shanti’s lips had pulled into a tight line, and Falcon had the impression she was fighting back the urge to destroy him, chains or not.
In many ways, he wished she would, especially now that he knew he’d seen her mother before. That he knew what had happened to her. A stronger man would tell her, but he was no such man. Never would be.
He shook his head. “Yes. But more than that, I am ashamed.”
“Save it for someone who believes you.” She wheeled around, turning to leave in the same manner she had the previous two nights, like a whirlwind of fury.
“Why did you say I am going to die?” he asked. He’d wanted to ask since the moment she said it, but had been nervous, though he wasn’t sure why.
She turned back for a moment, her eyes narrowing. “Haven’t you finished that book I gave you yet?”
He shook his head. Each night when she left, he was so exhausted he’d fallen right to sleep, his dreams full of images from her ongoing story.
“Read it,” she said, and then she was gone.
Falcon Hoza read all night, turning the pages with a vigor more driven by anxiety than a desire to finish the book. The story was a good one—about a misunderstood group of people with mottled flesh and long, clawed fingers, who were treated like nothing more than animals by the nation that had conquered them—but he didn’t enjoy it the way he normally would. For one, the parallels to the realities of the Phanecians—of his father, his brothers, himself—were so numerous and obvious it was almost a fictional work of treason. Secondly, the last page was fast approaching, and he’d realized something:
Shanti had claimed to have only read the last page of the book. The urge to skip pages, to skim, to go straight to the final piece of parchment was powerful, but he continued reading, forcing himself not to miss a single word. She’d shared her story with him—he owed her that much at least.
The area around his window shades was lightening and his eyes were stinging whe
n he did, finally, reach the last page. He’d read through the night, he realized.
Now that he was here, he didn’t want to find out the ending, because there was no good outcome in sight. The enslaved people were broken, beaten down, each new generation less hopeful than the one before it until the word hope didn’t even exist in their language.
The ruler of the dominant people had died, but he had three sons to continue ruling, to maintain their way of life. None had shown any signs of wanting to change. The last line on the second to last page felt like a black hole sucking him into it:
Those defeated, dream of escape. Their rulers die alone and heavy. The hourglass empties, the final grain of sand falling to the pile.
Change? Change does not exist in their world.
He took a deep breath, the edge of the page scraping loudly against the parchment as he turned it, grating his ears.
Numbly, he stared at the final page in the saddest story he’d ever read. It contained only one word:
Unless…
The ending had been so different to what Falcon had expected, what Shanti had insinuated, that the emperor couldn’t stop thinking about it. Though another war council was scheduled for that very day, Falcon canceled it, making up an excuse about being unwell and needing a day to rest.
Most of the day, he lay on the floor, ignoring knocks on his locked door, his brothers’ voices demanding him to let them in. Instead, he read the words again and again, trying to understand how the open-ended conclusion to the book was linked to his own death.
By the time the sun had set and his stomach was empty and clawing at him from the inside, his mouth dry from lack of water, he was about ready to tear out the page and fling the book across the room.
It clicked.
