by Stina Leicht
“Oh, I beg to differ,” the duke said. “He’s very much alive.”
“You forget. I know you, too,” Blackthorne said, his mouth forming a sneer. “I know when you’re lying. You open your mouth to speak.”
The duke hopped to his feet, nearly upending the chair in the process. He raised a fist, and Blackthorne leaned toward the blow.
“Stop,” the director said. “This is going nowhere, Corvinus. It’s my turn to reason with him.”
Lowering his fist, the duke shook hair from his eyes and resumed his seat.
“There is something your father has failed to mention,” the director said. “McDermott wasn’t alone when we found him. He was with a Watch captain, a wet nurse, and a baby. McDermott claims the child is yours. It seems the mother, a prostitute, died while giving birth.”
“Is this true? Are you the father?” the duke asked.
Blackthorne didn’t answer.
The director continued. “Understand we mean the girl no harm. Far from it. We merely need to verify her parentage. It’s important to our work.”
“Please, Severus,” the duke said. “The fate of the Regnum could rest upon it.”
At last, Blackthorne looked the duke in the eye. He focused all his rage and hate on the man. The duke returned the gaze, and they sat challenging one another in a tense silence.
When it became clear Blackthorne wasn’t going to volunteer an answer, the duke shrugged. “That can wait for the moment. There are ways of determining her parentage ourselves. All we need to know is if you have fathered more children.”
Blackthorne ground his teeth in shame and disgust. Again, it comes to this. Next, it will be the interrogation about how many times I bedded her mother, and how long had we lain together.
“Well?” The duke shifted closer.
Ignoring the screaming pain in his ribs, Blackthorne leaned forward once more. He tried to give the impression that he was about to give the desired information. However, he borrowed a phrase from one of Hännenen’s soldiers instead. “Why don’t you swive a reindeer?” he asked, and then he showed his teeth.
He had never said anything like it to the duke’s face before. The feeling of freedom and release in it was overwhelming. It’s nothing but futile bluster. But at least he’d finally had the courage to say what he had always wanted. He wasn’t going to cower in silence. You don’t own me anymore.
A muscle in the duke’s jaw clenched, and Blackthorne knew that it was only the director’s presence that saved him from a beating.
“You picked up an insolent attitude during your furlough,” the duke said.
The director said, “Perhaps the time has come to tell Severus what he truly is. That way, he will know what is expected and why.”
“I am the kainen who graduated second in your precious school of the pure,” Blackthorne said.
The director smiled, unsurprised. “And who do you think allowed you in the gate?” He paused, seeming to wait for the weight of his words to penetrate. “Even with everything that foul magician was able to achieve, certain inferior traits always tell.” He turned away in disgust. “You are only the means to an end.”
“You are an experiment,” the duke said.
“You wanted a kainen that could pass for human.” Blackthorne’s teeth were clenched together so tight he could barely speak.
“Shut up, boy. Listen,” the duke growled. “There once was a noble race of men who came to this land from the east—”
“The Purus. The Academy teaches that myth to the first-years,” Blackthorne said, and spat. “I’m familiar with it.”
The duke frowned. “You may have been kainen once, but you are no longer. The old race will be reborn even stronger than before, and you will be its progenitor.”
The director raised a hand. “Academy surgeons and naturalists discovered years ago that humans exposed to smallpox in a controlled manner survived immune and with minimal damage,” he said. “They avow that the same effect can be achieved with magic. However, during the trials, it became apparent that pure humans could not withstand the treatment process. Therefore, another means was developed.” He made to examine his fingernails. “You have been inoculated against magic. You have also been inoculated against malorum poison. If the magician did his job, these immunities will be passed to your offspring.”
Blackthorne felt his mouth fall open.
“You are of far inferior stock to those who will come. They will be the soldiers we need to combat the malorum problem,” the director said. “It is fortunate, but you weren’t the only suitable subject your father had to offer to the project. However, you are the only issue of your dam to endure the treatment whole.”
Unbelieving, Blackthorne attempted to understand what he was hearing.
The duke took over the conversation. “You and one other were the only ones to survive. Arion’s mother was half-human, and he was … damaged. Not only was he mentally incapacitated, but he had some rather unfortunate proclivities that made reproduction impossible. He is, alas, no longer with us, making you the last. A few years ago, there might have been a girl, but we lost your mother and the child during the birth. We’ve been unable to locate another suitable surrogate. Nonhumans of the appropriate coloring are difficult to locate.”
“My mother was alive when Talus told me she was dead?” The question slipped out before Blackthorne could stop it.
“As poor material as you are to work with, we could not risk her polluting you further,” the director said. “Therefore, she was removed.”
Talus lied. Blackthorne had never doubted that Talus was the duke’s man, the perfect Retainer. The old gladiator had killed, even tortured without question, without compassion. Talus could be cold and brutal, but until this moment, Blackthorne had thought he’d never been more cruel than necessary. I thought I could trust his word, if nothing else. “I will never again serve the Brotherhood.”
“You will do as I order you,” the director said. “Corvinus sold you to me to use as I see fit when you were ten. I own you.”
Blackthorne felt his lungs constrict, and he began to feel light-headed. His heart hammered at the insides of his chest. The wound in his thigh throbbed in rhythm with his heart. His vision narrowed to that of the cell floor.
He heard the duke say, “I informed the director of your reluctance to breed. He suggested you be released. He felt that eventually, you would follow your destiny. His theory proved correct, it would seem.”
The director said, “Not only will we resurrect the old race but assure the eventual extinction of nonhumans. Your children will reproduce quicker. Their superior traits will eradicate those with whom they mix.”
A chill passed through Blackthorne’s body. He wanted to be sick. He felt more than saw the duke move closer.
“If you father more children, we will agree to keep your friend McDermott alive,” the duke said.
The director said, “Ultimately, we need only wait until your daughter grows old enough to reproduce.”
“Then why don’t you kill me?” Blackthorne asked.
“We have learned that redundancies are desirable,” the duke said. “Therefore, our only requirement is that you mate with others of our choosing. We will make arrangements for the offspring. You will have everything you need.”
Pain in the center of Blackthorne’s fists brought the cell back into focus. He glared at the wall. “Will I have to wear the collar? Or would that only be a formality?”
The director placed a hand on the duke’s arm. “Whether you agree to the terms or not is of little consequence. At this moment, you’re being awarded the option of avoiding rehabilitation.”
They will strip you of everything that makes you who you are. They will drive a spike through your brain and leave you to drool. None of this will stop them from using you as a breeding stallion. Blackthorne swallowed and shut his eyes. He fought to keep from being sick.
A knock sounded on the door, and he heard the guard
s remove the chairs. It was followed by the duke’s steps in the passage outside.
“Give the matter consideration,” the director said. “You have until our next meeting.”
“I want proof,” Blackthorne said. “I want to see both of them. I want to talk to Mallory McDermott.”
The director smiled. “I will make the arrangements.”
“I won’t commit rape for you,” Blackthorne said. “I won’t—”
The lock turned with a heavy finality. Blackthorne lay in the dark a long time before sleep came. When it did, he dreamed of Lydia, his daughter’s mother. None of the dreams were pleasant.
TWO
The knots of agony squatting in different corners of his body combined forces. He let them consume conscious thought. There came moments when the cell was unbearably cold and others when it seemed stifling. As he lay facing the wall, alternately sweating and shivering, he was aware of food being shoved through the slot at the bottom of the door at intervals. He didn’t remember doing it, but at some point he had stolen a pewter spoon from an uneaten meal. He awoke from his fever clutching the spoon in a bloody hand. It was when he saw what he had scratched onto the wall in his delirium that the last of the numbness finally retreated.
I reserve no faith for hope.
He knew the rest. Death is more certain than love. Yet hope shines.
The lines wrenched up what seemed now another person’s memories. One night when he couldn’t sleep, he’d decided to practice what he’d learned from Moss. He had opened the book that the cook had loaned to him and flipped to a random page. Then he had translated it letter by letter. When he had registered its meaning, it had given him a chill. He wasn’t certain if he had interpreted it correctly or not—he honestly didn’t want to know. He liked it as it was. He touched the uneven Eledorean letters with hesitant fingers.
There came a loud bang as a bolt on the outside of the door was thrown open. He found it alarming that he hadn’t heard the guard’s approach and didn’t know who would enter. He faced his enemy and attempted to hide the verse by resting his back against it. The action was irrational. The line had been carved into the wall; eventually, they would see it. Still, he couldn’t stop himself. The words felt solid and comforting there, like a friend in a desperate battle.
His jailer entered the cell with yet another bowl. He seemed surprised to see Blackthorne awake. “Will you eat? If not, my orders are to force it upon you.”
“No need,” Blackthorne said. His voice came out in a weak croak that sounded strange to his ears.
The guard nodded and set the bowl on the floor. “I will tell the director.” Then he dropped a slice of brown bread into its contents and left.
Steadying himself with one hand on the wall, Blackthorne limped to the bowl. The stew had the consistency of greyish glue, and yet it managed to smell appealing. Grateful no one was watching, he devoured it two-handed and wiped the bowl clean with the bread. After emptying the dented water pitcher, he felt alert for the first time in days. His right eye seemed to be functioning almost normally. And although breathing was painful, his ribs were better too. Even the bolt wound had healed. At some point before he had been dumped in the cell, someone had stitched it closed with waxed black thread, and the bandage and sticking plaster had come loose. When he removed the filthy bandage, the exposed flesh was scarred. He pulled the torn trouser leg together against the cold.
I must get out of here. And if McDermott is alive, I must take him and the child with me. How?
An opportunity will come. Have faith. He thought of the poem that he’d carved, and a corner of his mouth twitched.
It suddenly occurred to him that he should keep limber so he could run if the need arose. After testing his legs, he thought he might manage a short distance, provided he prepared. But that isn’t enough. Not anything like it. He had to assume that he’d have to carry little Lydia. He might even have to help McDermott walk. If they didn’t lie about his being alive.
Blackthorne began with stretches; his cell was too small for much more than that. He pushed himself as far as he could stand. Sadly, it wasn’t long.
When the guard came for the pewter bowl, Blackthorne exaggerated the extent of his injuries. If the guards thought him too weak to attempt escape, they might become careless. Once free, finding his way north would be simple. Provided the others escaped. The only way to be certain was to go back to the Hold. Thinking of the Hold brought up memories of his time there. They’d taken his freedom from him. Again.
He clamped down on a powerful surge of grief with tightened fists, and his palms sent sharp bolts of pain up to his elbows.
Escaping the Hospital was his first priority. His chances increased if he was moved from the cell, and the odds fell to nothing if he was rehabilitated. Therefore, there was no other option than to cooperate. With that, he practiced saying the words without choking on them.
The director returned two days later, assuming meals were delivered in regular intervals. Blackthorne spent the hours between stretching, getting what exercise he could, and eating.
The director entered and gave Blackthorne an expectant look.
“Where’s McDermott and the child?” Blackthorne asked.
“I would have your answer first,” the director said.
Glaring at the floor, Blackthorne attempted to cover his fury with a defeat he didn’t feel. “I will do as you wish.”
Sounding pleased, the director said, “I suspected that would be your answer.”
Blackthorne waited for the director to sense the lie. It was then that he understood that living among kainen had affected his expectations.
The director turned to the open door. “Bring them in.” He stepped out, apparently in order to make room for the visitors.
Mallory McDermott shuffled into the cell with his head down. Manacles circled his ankles and chains rattled around his bare feet. When he had limped to the far side of the room, a tired woman entered, holding a small child with wide kainen black eyes and thick black hair. The baby was fussing.
The director said from the doorway, “I can be merciful, you see.”
“I want to talk to McDermott,” Blackthorne said.
The director motioned toward him. “Feel free.”
“Alone,” Blackthorne said.
“I will permit it,” the director said.
The woman held out the child.
That is my daughter, Blackthorne thought. I’m responsible for her. She’s a living person, and she’s my daughter.
“Take her,” the director said. “I wish to see how she reacts.”
At that moment, it occurred to Blackthorne that he knew nothing of babies. “I don’t—”
“You hold her like this,” the woman said. “One hand under her bottom and one on her back. Fortunately, she’s old enough that she can sit and hold her own head up. See?”
Blackthorne accepted the baby, and as her weight settled into his arms, the child stopped her cries at once. A shocked expression passed over the wet nurse’s face.
“Isn’t that interesting?” the director said.
Holding the child as carefully as he could, Blackthorne asked, “Why?”
“The baby hasn’t stopped crying since we brought her here,” the director said. “Until now, McDermott is the only one who has been able to console her. It’s one of the reasons he’s still alive.”
Oh, Blackthorne thought.
Little Lydia had her grandmother’s eyes, her father’s hair, and her mother’s ears and chin. Her skin was the same shade of tan as Blackthorne’s own. This is my daughter.
The wet nurse moved to take Lydia away.
The director said, “Leave her for now.”
“Yes, sir,” the wet nurse said.
“You may go,” the director said. “Return in an hour.”
The woman bowed and left.
“I want to talk to McDermott in private,” Blackthorne said.
“Very well,” the director s
aid. “You have a half-hour.” The door slammed shut.
Blackthorne made room on the shelf—the only surface on which to sit—and offered it to Mallory. “How bad have they hurt you?”
Mallory lifted his head. His face was a mass of bruises. “Bad enough.” His speech was affected by swollen lips. He sat; his eyes didn’t meet Blackthorne’s.
“Can you run?” Blackthorne asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Good.”
Baby Lydia squirmed in his arms. She seemed intent on facing a different direction. He attempted to permit her the freedom to do so without dropping her. She wiggled until she could lay with her head on his chest and face Mallory at the same time. Then she waved a hand in the air in Mallory’s general direction and gurgled. The noise communicated contented sleepiness. Something in Blackthorne’s chest warmed and twisted.
“I’m … sorry,” Mallory said.
“About what?” Blackthorne asked. “It is I who should apologize to you. You wouldn’t be here but for me.” He swallowed and gazed down at little Lydia. He could only see the top of her fuzzy head. She smelled of fresh linen and mother’s milk. “In fact, I should thank you for taking care of little Lydia. I owe you a great deal for that.”
“Why?” Mallory asked, the shame obvious on his face. “I gave you up. I told them everything I knew.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Except about where Slate is. That is because I don’t know.”
“None of that matters,” Blackthorne said.
“It doesn’t?” Mallory asked in self-disgust.
“You’re alive,” Blackthorne said. “A man has to do whatever he must to survive.”
The baby in his arms suddenly sat up. In that moment, he noticed she seemed rather somber for someone so young. On the other hand, he thought, how would I know? She laid one hand on his face, grabbed a handful of beard with the other and tugged. Sharp pain exploded in his cheek. “Ouch.”
McDermott gave him a sad smile. “You’ll have to watch out for that. At this stage, she’ll grab anything she can and put it in her mouth.”
