Child of Sorrows

by Michaelbrent Collings

  Golan thought. Thought. Finally shook his head.

  Udo leaned back, and grinned. The reaction clearly surprised Golan, who nearly smiled back.

  Nearly.

  Have I become such a difficult man?

  "Don't be embarrassed. No one else has ever seen it, either. Just me." Udo lay a finger on one of the pictures, a cross-section of a wing. "You were actually close, though, when you talked about the creatures' flight."

  "But you said –"

  "I said it wasn't flight itself. And it isn't." Udo leaned toward his student. "No, it isn't flight itself. It's where they fly."

  Golan thought. And this time – surprisingly quickly – he understood.

  "Down the mountain," he said. "Below the clouds."

  Udo nodded. "Birds are the only creatures that we are aware of who have descended below the clouds and then returned – alive."

  "But, surely insects, some animals –"

  Udo shrugged. "Insects? Perhaps. But not that we have observed, and so that is a dead end – at least for now. As for animals… there are no animals at the level of the clouds, that we have seen. And even if there were, birds are uniquely useful for my purposes."

  "How so?"

  Udo pointed to the anatomical drawing. "You helped me dissect this bird." He frowned, then looked embarrassed – a rarity for him. "That was you, wasn't it?"

  Udo managed not to look irritated. He just sighed. "Yes."

  "So you know what we found when we cut her open. What we saw when we examined her. But did you think to ask how she was chosen? How she came to be the subject of our examination? Or…," and Udo gestured around the room, at the hundreds of scrolls and reams of papers that held similar information, "… how I chose any of the other subjects?"

  "I just assumed you had students catch them for you."

  Udo shook his head. "No. Well, yes. Some. As controls. But others, like this one, I trained."

  "How so?"

  "I trained this one to chase a lure – a bright piece of metal. To catch it, and bring it back to me."

  Again, Golan understood. "You threw it over the edge of the mountain."

  Udo nodded. "It took quite a few tries to time it properly – to throw the lure enough ahead of time that the bird followed it under the clouds, but not so far ahead that it lost sight and turned back before going that far."

  Golan frowned. He chewed his lip as he stared at the parchment sheet. "So you're looking for what makes them different?"

  Udo nodded. "If anything." He looked hard at Golan. "We have been atop the five mountains for a thousand Turns, Golan – assuming the histories are true, which is debatable, given that histories tend to be written by people who have an agenda and are willing to bend the truth if it will further that agenda. A thousand Turns. In a closed system, with nothing coming in, and nothing coming out. We know there is more – the First Emperor's own stories, corroborated by corrupted tales from before, tell us so. But here, where we are, the Empire is all there is." He took a deep breath, suddenly feeling twice his age. "How long do you think this can last, Golan? How long before we run out of resources, or a disaster strikes, or simple human nature acts to wipe us all out?" He shook his head. "No, we must find a way to leave this place, and sooner rather than later."

  "And the birds will tell us how?"

  Udo nodded. "That is my hope." He rubbed his eyes and stared at the candle. "And the reason I stay when others have gone. Why I work while others sleep, and why I care nothing for my chain or the University honors – only for what I find, what I discover."

  Golan was silent for a long, long time, his expression unreadable. Finally he said, "Have you ever told this to anyone before?"

  Udo was silent nearly as long before he said, "No."

  "Why me?"

  Udo shrugged and turned back to his parchment, returning to his study. "I really don't know. Perhaps because I'm lonely. Perhaps because I worry that time is short."

  "Not because I'm particularly promising, then?"

  Udo laughed. He regretted doing so – he wasn't a monster. But it came before he could stop it. He didn't look at Golan after the laugh came. Better to let the younger man leave. Probably to ask to be transferred to a new discipline and a new advisor.

  Instead, something scraped across the floor. A chair. Golan drew it up to the desk, sitting beside Udo and leaning close to the parchment. "Tell me what you're looking at."

  Udo stared at him, the barest hint of a smile playing at one corner of his lips. "But it's late."

  The same trace of a grin showed on Golan's face. "Knowledge never sleeps."

  Udo smiled fully. He pointed at the picture he had drawn. "The spleen of this specimen is slightly enlarged, but within the typical range previously noted for this species, so…."

  They spoke on into the night, and Udo was surprised how much he enjoyed it.

  I was lonely, then.

  One more thing learned. One more bit of knowledge.

  The discussion continued unabated, brightening the atmosphere and even seeming to brighten the light of the candle itself.

  "What's…?" Golan blinked.

  "What is it?" Udo looked at him. "Did you see something?"

  "I'm seeing a lot. Too much, actually."

  It took him a moment to understand what Golan was saying. The candle was still lit, but its flame had been overpowered by something else: a brightness beyond its meager flame. A light coming from somewhere outside the room.

  And that light was growing.

  Golan stood up, and Udo saw him staring out the small window on one wall of the room.

  Udo looked, too. The window allowed a view of the next building over – one of the student dormitories, he thought – as well as the path between them. Usually it was fairly empty. He had rarely seen more than one person on the path, and never seen anyone on it at this time of night.

  The thought struck him that it wasn't night. That he and Golan had spoken through the night. But he had a fairly developed internal clock, and his body rejected that thought as soon as it came. Dawn was still hours away.

  So why was it light outside?

  And brightening?

  Someone ran past the window. It looked like a student, though it could have been a younger Academic. Hard to tell, because she was only wearing nightwear – a light robe and a knit cap. She ran past in a flash, then returned to view: she obviously had seen them in the room, but ran past too quickly to stop immediately.

  She began hammering on the window. "Let me in!" she screamed. Her panic was both palpable and contagious; Udo's pulse immediately quickened, his breath grew shallow.

  The light behind the woman brightened. She hit the glass harder. Looked behind her. Screamed.

  The light was so bright now that it hurt to look at. But Udo could vaguely see….

  "Gods," whispered Golan.

  Udo could only nod.

  The light brightened. Brightened. The woman at the window screamed. Then the light was so bright it swallowed her, and the scream disappeared just as she did.

  Udo turned away, blinking his eyes against the tears of pain and terror that the light – and whatever had happened to the woman – had brought.

  And as he did, he found only more to fear.

  The light was coming in through the open door to the hall.

  Not just outside, now.

  Everywhere.

  He heard a muffled gasp.

  He reached out. Felt Golan's hand in his, and they both clutched at each other like terrified children in the dark rather than grown men in the brightest light ever seen.

  They held each other, and Udo was glad he had told Golan what he suspected. Gladder still that Golan had stayed.

  Terrible to be alone, all my life.

  Then the light took him, and there was no more loneliness, for there was no more life.

  18

  "Sword. Sword!"

  At first the shaking didn't even register, so exhausted was she. The
day's toll had been high – physically, mentally, emotionally. Just working, working. Doing what she could, knowing it was far too little.

  All these powers, and what am I? I can kill, but can I save?

  She worked herself ragged, all the while hoping to hear something – of Cloud, of Malal.

  Of Arrow.

  But no word came, no one looked for her to tell her the news, either good or bad. She worked into and through the night, still pushing herself by the light of the glo-globes that illuminated the palace, still facing the terror and the madness… and all the while aware how little she really accomplished.

  The old man could have killed us all. Why didn't he?

  ("I hope you can cure him. A quick death would be far too merciful for him.")

  The words the old man spoke echoed through every step she took, every stone she lifted, every wound she bound. They were the words of one driven to terrible vengeance. But by what? What had Malal done to deserve this?

  That was the problem, though, wasn't it? There was no shortage of men and women who hated Malal, along with all he represented. People like Sword herself – the Cursed Ones had been the most effective revolutionaries, but she couldn't believe they were the only people who dreamed of change. There must be countless who wished to kill Malal.

  Because they don't know. They don't know things have changed! And will change still more.

  Of course, that thought led to one more list of people who might hate Malal: those who had been affected by the changes in the Empire, since Smoke had assumed Malal's identity and taken over for the real Emperor, the young man who had died insane in fires of his own making.

  The people the old Malal crushed want him dead. The ones we are throwing out do, too.

  We're just making everything worse.

  Her mood darkened along with the sky, each person she saw who was wounded, or frightened, or trapped becoming an outward confirmation that she was right. Things were worse. They would never be better.

  Even the kennels were better than this.

  That was the thought that brought her back to herself, at least a bit. The kennels were a slice from the Netherworlds. Children and teens raised to fight and die, never knowing why, never knowing if their lives served any purpose beyond the entertainment of the men and women who placed bets over the blood of the young. No choice, other than the simple choice offered every time the arena opened: fight or die, kill or be killed.

  This was better than the kennels. It had to be. Even though everything had not changed – certainly not all that had to be changed – still they had given some hope. Had offered some people greater choices than they had enjoyed before.

  She bound an old man's leg. Not a critical injury - most of the worst-injured had either died or been seen to by Patches by now. But he was clearly in pain, and when she finished the tie he put a bony old hand over hers.

  "Thank ye," he rasped. She nodded, and tried to leave, but found his hand clamped on hers. He wouldn't let her go. "Not for this," he said. He pulled her close. "For everything," he whispered, his teeth gritted in pain. Then his eyes rolled back and he slipped into unconsciousness.

  She checked to make sure he hadn't died; that the wound hadn't been too much for him, but he seemed all right. Just exhaustion and pain finally demanding oblivion. As she leaned over him, his eyes jerked open again, so sudden and wide that she almost screamed in startlement.

  "We know you, girl," said the man. "We see the changes. We… see…." His voice drifted off, his eyes closed. This time he didn't wake again.

  Sword realized her own eyes were shutting as well, as though in sympathy with the old man's, with the eyes of the many she had seen permanently closed today. She weaved on her feet, and was gradually aware of someone catching her, of the jostling sensation of being moved to the side.

  Then she knew nothing at all, just darkness and dreamless sleeping until the voice and the shaking. "Sword!"

  She blinked, and at first couldn't see anything but a blight blur. It was light out, she realized, and realized at the same time that she had, indeed, been shoved off to a corner of the room in which she had finally dropped from exhaustion.

  Part of the brightness shifted above her, resolving into the features of Father Akiro. Like everyone else, he was caked in dust and grime, sweat cutting uneven rivulets through the dirt on his face. But other than that he looked bright-eyed and aware, though she could tell at once that he hadn't slept since the attack yesterday.

  Only yesterday? So short a time, but it feels a forever ago.

  Then, on the heels of that thought:

  Gods, does Akiro ever get tired?

  The old man hadn't been shaking her after all. Rather, he prodded her repeatedly with one of his canes. "Sword," he said again. "Get up, girl." She moaned, and saw him squint. "Good, you're awake," he said. "So is he."

  The last few words took a few seconds to make their way into her brain. "Who?" she finally said. Hope bloomed, and shame at the same time. Hope, because she wanted the "he" to be Arrow. Shame, because she knew that Malal was the most important, the one who was key to seeing that the Empire didn't dissolve into anarchy.

  I don't care. Let it happen. Haven't I given enough?

  She pushed those thoughts away, shame burning even brighter within her. We are all possessed of a person within who wishes nothing but ease, quiet, contentment. Who is selfish in the extreme. And though it is no evil to have that person within, it is the beginning of evil to allow it full run of your mind.

  Sword pushed that selfish self away, forced herself to ask, "Malal?"

  Father Akiro shook his head, downcast. "No. Arrow. Cloud, too, but I thought you'd want to know about Arrow most, so I tried to find you." He eyed her small spot in the corner, nearly buried among the wounded and the sleeping who had given them aid. "Quite a bed you've made for yourself."

  She shivered, wondering if he heard the deeper meaning his words might hold.

  But… Arrow. Alive. Awake!

  Again she pushed away that deep self, that first self, and tried to feel worried about Malal – and by extension the Empire – instead of just relieved about Arrow. "And Malal?" She got unsteadily to her feet, Father Akiro reaching out to steady her until she shook her head.

  He sighed. "Best you should see for yourself."

  He led her quickly through the palace, away from the damaged portion and deeper into the areas where Malal held court and lived. Even without seeing damage to the walls and ceilings, there was no way to mistake this for a normal day in the palace. Far too many people moved through the halls, and all of them moved with a strange silence that spoke of terror, of confusion, and of jobs that needed doing faster than was possible.

  The air was one of defeat.

  Finally Father Akiro reached a single door where nearly a dozen of the Imperial Guard stood watch. He nodded at them, and they nodded back. Sword was surprised that he was so well-known, so easily accepted by them.

  Priests. Crafty as any politician, and twice as likeable.

  They went in. More guards stood inside the huge room – which looked to be one of the bedrooms for visiting nobles. Probably the closest place they had found that could be used as a treatment center for the Emperor, while still being reasonably secure.

  Not that anywhere really was secure. Not anymore.

  The guards, as always, were completely hidden under their armor and their skull-helms. Even so, Sword sensed the fear in here, thick as anywhere else in the castle. They were probably feeling what she herself was: the exquisite pain of those who thought themselves strong, only to discover their weakness in the face of something far more terrible than themselves.

  Arrow stood by the door. He looked wan, and new scars, bright red and angry, criss-crossed his neck and ran up in curls over his jaw to his cheeks. Sword herself had a long scar on one cheek – given her by the last Captain of Malal's Guard in order to turn her into a decoy for the girl who was an heir to the throne. Scars didn't bother
her – they told tales of wars fought, of victories earned, of trials survived. And Arrow's new scars – bad enough she could see they would always have a place on his neck and face – just made him seem more fragile, more fleeting, and all the more precious for it.

  His face, tight and tired as it was, relaxed a bit when he saw her. He swept her into his arms without a word, and without a word she accepted the comfort he gave. It seemed both forever and far too short a time in his embrace, then he drew away and said, "I feared for you."

  Arrow was not a man who gave himself over to flowery language or to losses of control. The fact that he admitted to his fear was an enormous nod to his feelings for her. She knew he loved her: his kisses, when they came, were passionate and tender. His arms around her were always firm, strong. But it was in the moments like this, where he said little but meant much, that she felt closest to him. A thing that only warriors could share, a feeling that only those who had suffered and bled together could understand.

  She squeezed him one last time, then said, "Cloud?"

  "He's all right, too. Patches were working on him most of the night, and apparently he was half-broken inside. But he woke recently, and was able to understand what had happened to the palace."

  "What did he say?"

  "Some very obscene things, which boiled down to, 'Don't waste time on me, help the people who need it.'" Arrow shook his head. "That man is too strong for his own good sometimes."

  Sword looked, finally, to the center of the room. A quiet knot of priests and Patches hunched around the bed there. They were mostly silent, and when they did speak it was with low, murmuring voices that sounded like nothing so much as the wind through a graveyard.

  The voices of men tending the dead.

  "Is he…?"

  Arrow shook his head again. "I don't know. None of them," he added, gesturing at the men around the bed, "seem to, either. Not that they'll talk to me."

  One of the people around the bed straightened, and Sword saw it wasn't all holy men and healers: Wind was also there. Like Arrow, she had a wan, bloodless face that spoke of too much stress and no sleep whatsoever. Her hair was mussed and unruly, and though she pushed it out of her face it was the gesture of someone who needed to see, not a woman worried about her appearance.