Select

by Patricia Reding

  “Yes, I saw Lucy this morning.”

  “Did she mention we might stop by?”

  “No. But then I only saw her in passing. She’s trying to unearth all the prophetic works she can find relating to the great sword—though I’m not altogether sure why.”

  “Oh!” Basha exclaimed as she turned Therese’s way. “We’ll have to give When the Two May Overcome to Lucy. There may be something important in it for her.”

  “When the Two May Overcome?” the professor repeated, unhidden excitement in his voice. “You have a copy of When the Two May Overcome?”

  “We found it at the palace recently.”

  “Why that’s—that’s marvelous! I’ve looked for a copy of that for— Well, ever since I learned of the girls’ birth.”

  “It’s important then?”

  “It could be crucial. It’s been so long since I had the opportunity to peruse it . . . I seem to recall it including prophecy regarding the great sword. And, of course, now that we know that the current ranking member of the first family is really two members—the twins—I’d really like an opportunity to look it over again.” He grinned. “That is wonderful news. Where did you say you found it?”

  “In Lilith’s things left behind at the palace.”

  “Hmmmm. That work is priceless. Please, do be certain Lucy gets it right away. I’ll borrow it from her.”

  “We will,” Therese said. “Now, as to the information we seek.”

  “Yes, I’m trying to think of the best way to do this. It seems the Council replaced the former chief of this office as a consequence of his abysmal lack of precision with the sanctuary records.”

  Basha sat forward. “You mean they’re incomplete?”

  “‘Incomplete’ is an understatement,” the professor said, frowning. “Still, this is a project I’ve had on my list of things to do since I stepped into this position. I had planned to send missionaries out to each of the seven provinces to get as close an accounting as possible.”

  “What if we could get them to come here?” Therese asked.

  “The Select you mean? All of them? Here?” He ran his fingers through his beard. “That would be most unusual. Possibly even . . . dangerous.”

  “Still,” she said, smiling, “unusual times call for unusual measures. So, here’s what I’m thinking . . .”

  Chapter Seventeen

  They passed through barren and desert-like lands, making their slow way through mile after mile of fallow, rocky fields, only occasionally passing through small villages that, aside from the few destitute farmers found there, appeared deserted. Or perhaps, Broden surmised as he watched the landscape pass by, the locals simply took cover when the motley crew that held him hostage, rode through.

  His captors didn’t treat him brutally, perhaps fearing a potential reprimand from Zarek, but neither were they particularly kind to him. For the most part, they simply ignored him, giving him little more than scraps to eat after their infrequent meals, and water to drink only after he repeatedly requested it.

  The journey gave him time to think about who he was and why he’d stepped in to take Calandra’s place. When one of the men stabbed the child, then laughed before leaving her for dead, Broden struggled with his feelings. For the most part, he’d not previously known fear or hatred, but he certainly recalled his first powerful encounter with the emotions. He’d been out riding with Marshall that day.

  How old was I at the time? Six, maybe? Seven?

  He couldn’t recall. He only remembered how much he loved Marshall’s company. The man was kind to him and he was the only one willing to speak openly of his mother, Lilith. Everyone else at the compound avoided the subject and when pressed, seemed embarrassed or at least uncomfortable with it. The boy wondered if they feared he’d form some sort of attachment to her memory, or sense of sympathy for her. But Marshall seemed to believe that Broden needed to know about her—that his curiosity about her was a natural thing.

  That day, after returning to the compound, Marshall ordered him to go clean up. Broden walked out the door to make his way to the showers just as Lucy arrived at their cabin. Sensing that something out of the ordinary was about to happen, he stood outside the door. He couldn’t recall what spurred him to do so, only that an unfamiliar tension hung in the air.

  What caused it? Was it the way Lucy charged forward? The way she hesitated at the cabin door? The way she glanced at me, then seemed to ignore me on her way in to see Marshall?

  In any case, he’d felt compelled to stay and to listen.

  “Marshall, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your attentions to Broden,” Lucy said as the door closed behind her. “He’s sure to grow into a fine young man—to your credit.”

  “He a good boy.”

  “He certainly is.” She hesitated. “A good boy who had a rocky start.”

  “I’ve never been able to erase from my mind what Lilith did. I only wish I could have spared him any of the pain. I feel responsible. I’ve always felt responsible, I guess.”

  “Is that why you’ve taken him under your wing?”

  “No. I love him as though he was my own.”

  “Yes,” Lucy cleared her throat, “but of course, he is not, is he?”

  “That makes no difference to me.”

  “Marshall, have you ever wondered whose son he is? I assume Lilith never told you.”

  The man said nothing for a long while. Broden envisioned him looking hard at Lucy.

  “I don’t need to know,” he finally said. “It would make no difference to me anyway. Lilith left the palace for a long time. She came back carrying Broden. I never asked her, and I’ve always assumed that she wouldn’t have told me if I had.”

  “I think you should know.”

  “I told you, it doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Maybe not. Still—” Stopping short, Lucy sighed. “At the hearing with the Council, after Lilith’s death, Nina testified. Do you remember?”

  “I do.”

  The sound of a chair scraping against the floor sounded out. Broden envisioned Lucy sitting down.

  “She said that she’d met Lilith in Chiran.”

  “What? Chiran?”

  “That’s right. There, Lilith used the name ‘Semira.’ She acted as consort to,” she hesitated, “Zarek himself.”

  “No.” Confusion, or perhaps it was disbelief, laced Marshall’s voice.

  Lucy told him about how Nina relayed that when Lilith left Chiran, everyone believed she was pregnant. “The timing was perfect. I have no doubt. The boy is Zarek’s son.”

  At that moment, Broden turned and ran. He ran for what seemed like hours. He knew Lilith had been an evil woman, that she’d engaged in horrific behavior, and that she’d tried to kill the rightful heirs and ranking members of the first family. He knew she bore responsibility for Rowena’s death, and that because of her actions, Reigna and Eden grew up motherless. He also knew of Zarek—mostly from Nina and Erin, who taught at the compound school. They’d shared stories with the children of their early lives in Chiran. So now, he had to confront the fact that both of his parents were evil and cruel people.

  After some time, he fell, exhausted. With his face on the ground, dirt covered his tear tracks. He brushed it away with the back of his hand.

  What does this mean? What does it make me? Am I, also, evil? Could I . . . be otherwise?

  He cried until he fell asleep. When he awakened, no doubts or fears lingered. He knew who he was—and he knew whom he’d serve.

  Broden’s thoughts, his recollections, were interrupted when he and his captors finally arrived in the city of Fallique, where Zarek lived. Though anxious for the journey to end, the sights before him, shocked him.

  Poverty consumed the city. The residents, almost to a person, wore ragged, often threadbare clothing, and tattered and weatherworn shoes—when they had any at all. Men accompanied those few women he saw, and strangely, the women wore heavy black veils that covered them, head to foo
t, like burial shrouds. He wondered how they managed to see through them. Only the manner in which they walked, their relative smaller size, and without exception, their bare feet, attested to their gender. Twice, his captors came upon a lone woman unaware. Each time, she ran away hastily, seeking cover.

  The men took the young Select to a two-story rock building that boasted but a few barred windows, readily identifiable as a prison. They assisted him in dismounting, then ushered him inside where they untied his hands and then turned him over to a uniformed guard.

  The man escorted him down a corridor, past a number of rooms, to the last one at the end of the hall. Broden nearly reeled from the stench—and that was before his escort shoved him inside a cell that already housed three other men. Almost tripping over the refuse and vomit on the floor, he gagged from the odors that instantly surrounded and covered him like a second skin.

  For two days he shared his prison cell with the others whose eyes, it seemed, never left him. All the while, he remained huddled in the far corner, silent and waiting. When anyone caught his attention, he held their gaze, a threat in his eyes. Advance at your own peril, he thought.

  Once a day, guards delivered food consisting of a mealy, wormy mash, and stale bread. Each time, Broden’s cellmates rushed to the door to greet their jailors, but he remained in his corner, refusing to partake. Only when the others slept did he approach the water bucket sitting near the door. The first night he found it empty. The second night, a scant cupful of water, with scum floating on the top, remained. He drank it.

  Finally, on the third day, one of his cellmates approached him. With ebony hair and dark skin and eyes, he bore a hawkish nose that seemed to arrive before he did. A wound, oozing infection, nearly covered one side of his face, from temple to chin. A thick, puckered, raised scab covered it.

  The man crouched down. “What are you in for?”

  Broden shrugged.

  “Don’t say much, do you?” He glanced at his other cellmates, then looked back. “We’re innocent too.”

  “Oh?” The young Select raised his brow. Isn’t that what all criminals say?

  “That’s right. It’s not your everyday criminal they keep here. No,” the man said as he wiped his hawkish nose with the back of his hand, “for the most part rapists and murderers are coddled here in Chiran. Celebrated even.” He sat, then leaned back against the wall. “Noooo,” he drew out the word, his eyes closed, “this place is reserved for political prisoners.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, political prisoners and soldiers who, for one reason or another, refuse to do Zarek’s will. Anyone who speaks out, really.” He offered his hand. “My name’s ‘Striver.’”

  Broden hesitated before shaking his hand. “Broden.”

  “What’s that thing there on your wrist?”

  Broden touched the band his captors had placed there. “A band. I think it’s meant to cut off any magic powers.”

  Striver pulled back. His eyes narrowed. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “How can you tell?” Broden asked, smirking.

  “You talk funny.”

  “Hmmm. Right. So, what did you say about Zarek that landed you here?”

  The prisoner looked away. “You happen to see that palace Zarek lives in?”

  His captors had pointed out to Broden when they’d entered the city, an enormous building with various domes. Gold covered the uppermost one of them. Lights shone from its windows, and torches covered the grounds surrounding the place. Soldiers stood at attention at each of its entrances.

  “I did.”

  Striver bit his lip. “The people live out in the elements, but Zarek and his minions live like that. The people starve because their emperor steals the fruits of their labors, but he and his pets are fat, pretentious and lazy.” He spat, then with his booted foot, rubbed his spittle into the floor. “Zarek has seen to the destruction of thousands—many, many thousands of people—most of them women—but also anyone who disagrees with him. Meanwhile, he’s safe. His personal guards follow him wherever he goes, he has his own harem . . . and people these days are required to follow his faith,” he added, as though in afterthought.

  “Why would Zarek target women, in particular?”

  “Oh, rarely does he dirty his own hands with the task. No, he’s simply made life so miserable for the Chiranian people that they’ve committed infanticide quite on their own. And now, after years of killing off their own infant daughters—” Striver stopped short and faced Broden. “I sought to be a school master in my village. My parents were teachers. But Zarek finds no use for educating the people these days. He prefers them illiterate. Also, he’s made it a crime to educate women. Men? Boys? Today they’re taught little more than the fine arts of murder and mayhem. The emperor is raising an army, don’t you see?”

  “So . . . what did you do? To end up here?”

  “My family and I lived as best we could, farming a small strip of land. Then one day, I lost my wife and newborn daughter to that monster.” Striver folded his hands and looked down at them. “I was extraordinarily lucky to have a wife. She was the daughter of old family friends. They were followers of Ehyeh. They raised her and they loved her. When they discovered that I did as well, they allowed her to marry me. But after our daughter was born, we couldn’t afford to pay the tax for her. Zarek’s men had raided our storehouses.”

  He was quiet for some time, reliving his memories. “We swore to do whatever we could to protect our daughter,” he finally said. “Then one day, we decided we’d try to escape to Oosa. There, my wife could openly practice her faith, and besides, there was nothing here for us.” His eyes filled with tears. “We almost made it, but soldiers caught us. They,” he gulped, “killed my wife and daughter and put me in here as an example to others.”

  “Why?”

  “Why does Zarek treat women that way? Or, why am I here?”

  “Both. Either.”

  Leaning back, Striver closed his eyes. “I don’t know why Zarek treats women as he does. Some say he hates them. Some say he . . .” The man paused and looked Broden in the eyes. “Some say he fears them,” he finally said. “They represent something over which the emperor has no power. Well, not the kind of power he’d like anyway. You see, they represent the power of life. The power to give life, to carry and to protect it.” He paused again, looked back at Broden, and then shrugged. “Then again, some say it has nothing to do with women at all. That it’s all about men, and about his desire to control them.”

  “Hmmm. How long will you have to stay here?”

  The man spat again and then, wincing, touched the wound on his face. “This is just a stop for me on my way to either the gallows or the concentration camps.”

  “Concentration camps?”

  “Forced labor.”

  “Toward what purpose?”

  “Toward whatever aids Zarek’s military might. Building roads, manufacturing weapons, mining resources for his war machine . . .”

  “Heads up!” came a shout from outside the cell. “Chow!”

  A guard unlocked the cell door and dropped inside, a bucket of the daily gruel and an old loaf of bread.

  Broden’s cellmates rushed for it. One grabbed the hardened loaf of bread, broke it in half, handed one piece to another man, and then scurried off into a corner where he sat, alone.

  Striver got to his feet. “I’ll get you some.”

  “Hey you there!” an approaching guard shouted at Broden. “Seems you’re to have an audience today. Fancy that. Ha ha ha! Zarek’s own heir is to have an audience,” he taunted.

  Striver’s head jerked toward Broden. “Heir!” he gasped between clenched teeth, malice in his eyes.

  Just then, two more guards approached. “You! Let’s go!” one of them ordered.

  Slowly, Broden got to his feet. Striver stood before him, as though challenging him.

  He did not respond.

  “Let’s go!” the guard shouted. “Now!�
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  Broden walked around his cellmate, then made his way to the door.

  After tying his hands in front of him, the guards led him to the prison’s exit. They laughed at and taunted him all the way.

  When they finally stepped outside, Broden inhaled deeply, then coughed, trying to rid his nostrils of the jail’s stink. His efforts were in vain; he wore the scent.

  The head guard wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Well, it’s not as though your audience will last long. You’ll do as you are for the gallows.” He pushed him.

  Broden walked with the guards, one of whom carried the great sword, toward the palace. Along the route, stood spectators. They grinned and snickered as the entourage passed by. Clearly, they found the young man’s claim fantastic—and false. Even so, he held his head high.

  When they arrived, they stepped inside. The cleanliness of the waiting room in which Broden found himself, could not have been a more stark contrast to the prison he’d just left.

  The guard carrying the great sword stepped out. A few minutes later, he returned. “Master Zarek’ll see ya now,” he said, a malicious grin upon his face.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The grand room sported a domed and painted ceiling, plush black damask curtains, and a parquet floor of intricate geometric designs fashioned from various species of wood. Oddly, given the greatness of the room, no art hung on the walls.

  Guards stood about, weapons hanging from their belts. One shoved Broden inside.

  Off balance, and without the full use of his hands to keep himself stable, he stumbled and nearly fell.

  The man pushed him again. “Down!” he ordered.

  Confused, Broden dropped to his knees.

  Moments later, the man drew his sword, then placed the tip of it at the center of his prisoner’s back. “Down!” he repeated.

  As he fell forward, Broden extended his bound hands out, his face between them. Half expecting to feel the soldier’s sword continue its journey through his middle, he breathed a delayed sigh of relief when it did not.