Brood of Bones

by A. E. Marling

  I felt I was the last person alive, that I would be left here and forgotten, my skeleton found years later in a pile of twenty-seven gowns.

  Worst of all, I imagined that this was what it would be like to have my soul imprisoned. Blackness all around, the nothing smothering me and choking me and my every effort to escape would only strengthen the Soultrapper.

  Deepmand would be experiencing this, or worse. The Soultrapper had drawn a glyph on him, before he died, and now he would struggle to free himself from his withered corpse, for as long as the Soultrapper lived. He had died because of my uncertainty and inadequacy.

  “If I live,” I said to the emptiness, “if I survive and Morimound does, too, Deepmand, I swear I will provide for your family. I will take them into my home and treat your children as my own. Even the bastard.”

  I saw scant possibility of that. If the city survived the night and Priest Abwar gathered the city guards to kill the Soultrapper, then every last Bone Orb inside a woman would explode.

  My hands beat against the wall, and I wept. Mucus dribbled over my lips. I had no ability to save my city, and I saw now that I never had, not when confronted with men whose magic gave them the power of gods. I had spent my life studying a magic that did nothing of use, leaving me without means to defend myself or anyone else.

  The squeak of sliding metal surprised me, and a rectangle of light expanded across the floor; the aperture at the base of the door had opened, and a bowl of water and rice slid through.

  “Has the night passed?” I tripped over my dresses to bend down to the opening. “Is it day?”

  The aperture closed, throwing me back into darkness. I had no stomach for eating, yet I felt the mounting pressure to relieve my bladder. I stumbled around searching for a chamber pot for what seemed an hour. I could have retreated into my dream to recall where it was, yet too great a lethargy bowed me down for me to wish to utilize the memory mirror, or anything else.

  I forced myself to eat the rice, then I used the bowl as a chamber pot. As I rose from squatting, my gowns proved too cumbersome, causing me to tip the full bowl over and spill its noisome contents. The room stank with my shame.

  “These horrid gowns!”

  I tore at them, wishing to be rid of their swelter. Their silk mired my every step, forcing me to use a cane, and I wanted to be rid of it all.

  “I won’t die in these wretched gowns!”

  Try as I might, I could not tear the enchanted fabric, nor could I untie their labyrinth of laces. I lay sweating and defeated, in drifts of velvet.

  Of course, I reminded myself I could not afford to remove the gowns, especially not now. They protected me as much as mail armor protected a soldier. Underneath them, I was simply a sleepy girl who could die to any scimitar blade. With them on, everyone saw me as an enchantress: Men feared me, and even the Soultrapper knew he needed my skills. No, I could never be without my gowns.

  Light flooded the room, and through blinking eyes, I saw that an acolyte had entered. He winced at the smell and at my disheveled state. Then he provided documentation on clay tablets of the condition of the Flood Wall.

  The acolyte’s candle illuminated the room: planters capsized, ferns and moss browning. Books were strewn from shelves. Dead fish floated in one of several bowls, their water clouded. The Soultrapper’s follower must have vandalized Kishala’s sanctuary during the kidnapping.

  I reviewed the acolyte’s notations, asked him a few questions then bid him to leave. He set parchment, ink, and quill on the table. Then he spoke.

  “Enchantress, they say the Ever Always killed the women in the Bazaar. All across the city, families are making sacrifices. Some women are arranging their death rites.”

  “Anlash Niklia killed those women.”

  He grimaced but nodded. “I suspected that. The acolytes of the Fate Weaver refuse to take any action, but the rest of us are fortifying the Island.”

  “Priest Abwar leads you?”

  “He is fevered, from a cut on his hand.”

  “Unfortunate,” I said.

  “Should we attack Sunchase Hall? The traitor Anlash has the priest’s daughter hostage.”

  “Killing him would not benefit Morimound.”

  “Flawless, what should we do? If you escape, could we count on you to lead us?”

  “You cannot count on me for anything.”

  The acolyte left with the candle, returning the room to darkness.

  It mattered not. By feel, I spread the parchment then wrote the plan in my dream. The Flood Wall could hardly be rebuilt with the waters already high, yet temporary barriers had a chance of preventing the flood from spreading if one diverted some of the water through the sewer system.

  I outlined a plan to reconstruct the wall during the following dry season.

  Awaking, I waited for the acolyte to retrieve my work. The door stayed shut, the room black. My gowns prevented me from pacing, and when I resorted to banging a fist against the door, I still garnered no response.

  My thirst convinced me that the majority of the day had passed. Dipping my hand into a fishbowl to lap up water would be decidedly unladylike and unsanitary, yet I did it anyway. I wondered if night had fallen again and if the Lord of the Feast had struck; I imagined myself locked in this room, the last person alive in Morimound. The weeks of my starvation would be agonizing.

  I hoped Maid Janny fared better than I, wherever the lepers had taken her. Doubtless, they only held her to stop her from blathering about Tethiel.

  “Please,” I said, “let her inconsequence and unappealing figure save her from harm.”

  The door opened in a burst of light. A man spoke, and the voice flashed a bolt of recognition through me.

  “Leave the candle on the table, my heart.”

  A guard left the light, and the door shut behind Lord of the Feast. We were alone.

  Day Forty-Two, Third Trimester

  The Lord of the Feast wore the robes of an acolyte, and for the first time, I saw him without his face powdered. I still recognized him instantly by his slumped shoulders, impassive expression, and crooked fingers. The brand of the black triangle did not show on his brow; he must have hid the stigma under a flesh-colored paste.

  I wanted to scream, to throw a book at him, to weep, and to cower. My body refused to perform any of those actions, and I did no more than stare into his metallic-blue eyes.

  He returned my gaze but did not speak.

  I wrested back control of my breathing and managed to wet my tongue enough to form words.

  “What have you done with Maid Janny?”

  “She is safe.”

  “Is she? Is Spellsword Deepmand? He died while you loitered. While you did nothing. Why? Why drag this out beyond mercy?”

  “Soultrappers favor decoys. Now that I have seen him cast magic, I am convinced.”

  “Yet still you wait.”

  “The waters have delayed my Feasters.”

  I felt insignificant, no more than a colorful caterpillar. The Lord of the Feast could crush me with a thought, and now I believed he would feel no qualm in doing so.

  “Did you always know,” I whispered, “that killing the Soultrapper would kill the women?”

  “I knew that once I began Feasting, I could not stop myself,” he said, toneless as ever. “Understand, your city is delicious.”

  His fingers clenched as far as they could and he swallowed, his tongue running over his upper lip. Closing his eyes, he took two long breaths before speaking.

  “So many worried for their unborn children that every breath tasted like strawberries and cream. Their uncertainty for the future was salted pork, frying on the pan. Now that the deaths in the Bazaar have seasoned their fear—Ahh!”

  Saliva strung between his teeth as his mouth stretched into the first full expression I had seen on his face: hunger.

  “Fear is a banquet, tables set on every street, boards burdened with steak broiled in wine and dribbling with juices, with mutton roaste
d with truffles, with buttered carrots and enough baked pies to feed a thousand of my children.”

  I began to shiver and my own stomach clenched in horror.

  “The Soultrapper is a snake on the table,” he said, “and only with his death may the banquet begin in safety. When the women die I’ll devour their terror and flood the city with nightmare. I will be the Seventh Flood.”

  My heart beat twice before the gravity of his words hit me: He planned to kill not only the women but their husbands as well, and their sons, fathers, uncles, nephews, and grandfathers. This was the doom predicted by Salkant of the Fate Weaver, the prophesy of “within his lifetime” off by mere days. And Sri had dreamed of a flood without water.

  Tears burned my face as I stomped toward him, not realizing what I intended but with my fists raised. Before I reached him, I tripped over my gowns and collapsed weeping.

  “Not tonight,” he said, “but perhaps the night after. No matter what you see, no matter what you hear and feel, do not believe it. These walls will keep you from fleeing into greater danger, and you should live to see daybreak. I will ensure the survivors find you.”

  “There—there will be survivors?”

  “Past floods drowned all but the wealthiest in the Island District. I find it poetic that the Seventh Flood will start on high and sweep downward, killing all but the poorest of Stilt Town. The survivors will need leadership in the time ahead, and you will govern them. That is my gift to you.”

  “Your gift?”

  My hand snapped to the ruffles at my neck, and I scrounged between the folds of fabric to pull out the red diamond, wishing to throw it at him. Its gold chain prevented me from doing so, cutting into my fingers as I strained to break it.

  “You kill most everyone in Morimound and call it a gift? You lied to me!”

  His open-mouthed hunger contracted, his expression changing into something subtler. “I never lied.”

  I realized he stared at the red diamond on the necklace, and I grew embarrassed and angry with myself for allowing him to see it. “You did worse than lie. You deceived.”

  “You deceived yourself,” he said, “if you thought I’d attempt to do good. I’m far too conscientious for that.”

  “I will warn the Soultrapper,” I said, aware I was raving but unable to care enough to contain myself. “I’ll tell him your plan, and he’ll wither you like he did Deepmand.”

  “You will do nothing of the kind.”

  “I see nothing to lose by it.”

  “Morimound has recovered from six floods,” he said, “but one Soultrapper will change it beyond recognition. You think all these Bone Orbs will satisfy him? This is only the first crop. His power will spread outward from this city, until his dominion rivals the Oasis Empire. And he won’t die. His magic will extend his life even as it distorts his body, and once he at last shrivels into dust, he’ll lock his own soul in his bones and still control legions of slaves.”

  I clutched the red diamond as if its gold chain were a rope thrown to me as I tumbled down a cliff into despair. However, the enchanted jewel could save neither Morimound nor me, no matter how much I wished it would.

  “After the Seventh Flood,” he said, “I’ll be gone with the dawn. This time I will not return. Enchantress Hiresha...I think you deserve better, but so do all born to this world.”

  With that, he left.

  The candle remained on the table, yet I curled my arm around my face, hiding from the light. This candle stank of burning ox fat. As I sobbed, I wondered if the Lord of the Feast had been right: I would accept the Seventh Flood, allowing all but a few of my people to die in order to save all from enslavement.

  Anlash Niklia was ill mannered and brutal, which were common traits among kings. He had professed his wish to protect the city, and I had no doubt that with his strength in magic, Morimound could become a world power. I envisioned myself at his side, advising him, petitioning him for better treatment of his subjects, for Alyla and Sri. He had some mercy in him; his magic had selectively spared girls younger than twelve from pregnancy.

  My stomach rolled, and I blotted out the thought. Expecting kindness from the man who had violated women with Bone Orbs would be madness. He had no mercy, only practicality. The girls would have made insufficient vessels for the unchildren, or they would have died and thus denied his nascent empire its future generation.

  The door opened again, and I was angry that the Lord of the Feast would dare to return to torment me yet again.

  Lifting my eyes from the crook of my elbow, I realized it was not he. One of the Soultrapper’s followers stood beside the guard, both with scimitars drawn.

  “The candle’s lit! So she can command fire.” The follower’s scimitar trembled as it pointed to me. “Don’t you try your enchantery on me, you hear? Or I’ll carve you into a jackal’s dinner!”

  His ignorance astounded me, yet not half so much as those rudely sharp blades.

  The guard stayed silent beside him, yet his sword also wobbled in the air, his knuckles white on the hilt. I began to think they both feared me, and the revelation was not unpleasant, as it meant I might yet live.

  “Did ya finish the plan? Water’s rising, and we’ll be swimming soon, if the clouds don’t let up.”

  I waved to the parchment on the table and noticed the blood on my hand, which I had cut when yanking at my necklace. My fingers shoved the red diamond out of sight in my gowns.

  The follower half-tripped over a fallen book on his way to the table. Keeping his scimitar angled at me, he attempted to scrutinize the construction procedures and diagrams while glancing my way every other second.

  I thought I should warn them about the Lord of the Feast. Better for people to live, even if they suffered. Yet, the follower and guard had arrived so soon after Tethiel that I worried he might still be in the building, and he might intercept any message I gave them. I was too drowsy to decide if that was probable or not.

  “The pictures seem right enough.” The follower scooped up the parchment and rolled it into his belt. He backed away from me and nodded to the guard. “Well, go on. We’ll be safer once it’s done.”

  The guard stalked toward me with his scimitar.

  I needed two seconds to realize the purpose to which he intended to put that blade and another to remember that I had lost both my golden hump and Deepmand. Neither of them would save me now. The blade swung toward my head.

  I tried to back away, tripping instead into my billowing gowns. The scimitar sliced the air above my nose.

  “Hurry, you fool!” The follower shouted from behind a bookcase. “Before she enchants us to death!”

  I thrashed to my feet and tried to escape, wallowing in my silks, yet the guard had trodden on several of my hems, pinning me. He grabbed at the swaths of cloth spreading from my shoulder and yanked me toward his blade. My gowns, I realized, had just killed me.

  An agony spread through me, even though the scimitar had yet to cut. I would be thrust from this world; the majority of Morimound would soon follow, and I could do nothing to stop it.

  The guard’s face tensed as if he struggled against something within him.

  “She killed His Divinity’s sons.” The follower peeked his head around the bookcase. “They broke because of her, and the enchantress must die!”

  I glowered up at the guard, angry that I would have to admit to the other spirits that a possessed nobody had killed me. Not about to waste breath on pleading, I torqued the arm holding my shoulder.

  A line of pressure crossed over my neck, followed by sensations of heat and wetness. I glanced below my chin to see blood dribbling over the bronze of the scimitar.

  He had severed my throat.

  A calmness washed through me, along with feelings of lifting and weightlessness, as if I entered my dream.

  “Good lad.” The follower strode from behind the shelf with scimitar raised. “Now lay her out, and I’ll cut off her head for His Divinity.”

  The gua
rd was holding me on my feet, and I had pressed my hands against my throat. While blood leaked between my fingers, I gazed at the men with a sense of perfect clarity. My own struggle seemed a trifling thing now, only one fraying thread in the Loom of Life. In addition, I realized that even if I could still speak to warn them of the Lord of the Feast, I would not.

  Alyla and Sri would die birthing Bone Orbs; the Soultrapper would sacrifice them because he cared little for his people and much for himself, and under his rule, Morimound would rise to power but not to greatness. Better for some of my people to lay down their lives now than doom their descendents to tyranny.

  The follower stopped his approach, and the guard stiffened, their eyes widening. I wondered what in my face had given them pause.

  Hands lifted from my throat, and I realized they must be my hands as my blood covered them and they reached from my sleeves. Yet I could not recall releasing my grip on my neck, or of lifting my arms, although I could not be certain: I felt nothing now but a coldness.

  My dripping fingers etched runes of blood in the air, and red energy crackled down my arms. My hands began to smoke with heat. From this, I could only conclude that blood loss was causing a hallucination.

  The guard backed away from me, the follower dropping his scimitar. Both their mouths stretched in horror, and this pleased me until I realized that real men would not be able to see my hallucination. Their reactions also had to be the result of miscalculations in my dying brain.

  Flame spewed from my hands; blinding waves of red blasted over both men. Books sprayed into ash, and the marble behind crumbling shelves brightened into molten dribbles.

  The fire scoured away the men, vaporizing their flesh and carbonizing their bones, which shattered against the wall. Ash drizzled through the air.

  When the room cleared of smoke, I found myself on my knees with cold hands still held against my throat. The bookshelves returned into being from their recent incineration, and the walls were no longer melting; my hallucination had ended. Quite peculiar, I thought, that the men lay unmoving on the floor, their skin white and faces wracked with terror. Neither man breathed.