She pinched my arm. I didn’t punch her in the face because what she said next stopped me in my tracks.
“Girl, for real? The tent disappeared. She knowed your name! What more would it take to get through your thick skull?” She sighed. “There is somethin’ right strange ‘bout that woman, and I don’t think you want to know any more than that.”
“Well, when you put it that way…” I tried to let go of some of my anger, a difficult thing for a Fire Child, and tried to think things over. I flopped down and stared at the ceiling. “She was strange. First thing is she knowed I thought she was a faker. I don’t know how she guessed my name, but I woulda told her if she asked. Polite-like.”
Becky Jo snorted.
“She din’t get real scary ‘til she flipped over my card.” I looked at my best friend. “Did you see it? Do you know what it was?”
Becky Jo nodded like she din’t really want to. “Yeah. I knowed it. It were the Chariot.”
I thought about this. “What, like I’m goin’ somewhere?”
She shook her head. “No, Sally Mae. From what I know, the Chariot means you’re in for a tussle.”
I sat up. “A tussle?”
“Yup. A tussle.” She played with the edge of my tattered blanket. “You’ll have a heap to get over, but in the end you’ll be on the winning side on account you’re ornery and stubborn.”
I groaned and let the ornery and stubborn thing pass for the moment. “Like I don’t have enough on my plate as it is. Huh. Life is nothin’ but having a heap to get over, but why did she get so pissed off ‘bout it? And what does it have to do with my daddy? Because that was my question.”
“I don’t know. All I know is she was one scary woman.”
“Not as scary as eating fried butternut on a stick.”
Becky Jo giggled. “Hey, at least I din’t spew like Beau.”
We busted up, and I plumb forgot about the Chariot.
But the Chariot never did forget about me.
***
A professional editor of over eighty novels, Annetta Ribken has also been writing since a tender young age, when letters were chiseled on stone tablets. A precocious student, Annetta earned her Ph.D in the School of Hard Knocks, with honors, in the early Age of Disco. She lives and works just outside of St. Louis with her evil feline overlord, a rescued shelter cat named Athena.
Annetta has big plans to release the sequels to Athena's Promise (Book One of the Aegean Trilogy) and The Trailer Park Tiara and the Goat Incident (a Sally Mae Riddley Adventure) in 2014. She is not too proud to bribe her muse with chocolate.
You can find out all about her at about.me/annettaribken including a link to her fiction on Amazon and all other fine online book stores.
***
STRENGTH
A Promise in the Dark
By Rochelle Maya Callen
I couldn’t remember when I first dreamed of the boy. We sat on the cliffs above Zorilah in silence, the wind whipping at us, threatening to tear us apart. His black hair tickled my cheek as he leaned in close whispering in my ear. At first, I couldn’t hear his words, but his breath was a warm caress against my cheek so I never leaned away.
One night, his voice was as clear and real as the cold nipping at my toes through my torn boots. He spoke of death, of ashes, of blood, but his words never frightened me. They were a comfort, a promise in the dark so I always snuggled down onto the wet concrete and stayed in dreams—dreams where Zorilah was free, beautiful, and ours.
I haven’t dreamed in a very long time.
I pulled my thin shirt over my nose, trying to block out the smell of rot and human waste. I sighed loudly, but the whimpering down the tunnel overpowered my exasperated sound. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the angle of the boy’s jaw, the pale smoothness of his features, the warmth he offered me every night. The memory slipped away from me and I clung tightly, because it was all I had left. I couldn’t remember...anything. I choked down a sob building in my chest. No more quiet comfort or dark promises. Just cold, wet tunnels, hungry faces. Just danger lurking in the shadows and gruff voices of the King’s Hoarders roaming at night. My palms tingled. So many desperate, weak souls quivered in the tunnels. They needed strength. My strength. But I just rolled over and faced the mouth of the tunnel and the blackness outside feeling like I had nothing left to give.
***
All the Arcana were marked with a brand on their back when they were brought into the King’s Circle. I remembered the ceremonies: incense, candles, a night of fruit and cheese. No one went hungry on the induction night of an Arcana member. I knew I was Arcana before I felt the small mark etched on my hand between my thumb and index finger. I felt souls, felt when they trembled, felt when they needed my touch. Souls were tender blooms within a person, but sometimes fear or anxiety or sorrow choked them. Sometimes the bloom needed a little strength to break free.
I remembered sitting beneath a rickety roof and looking over at my Mama as she tried to smash berries in a bowl. I stared at my mother’s hunched shoulders and shining eyes and saw the petals of her soul drooping. I asked her, “Mama, why is your soul tired?” She stiffened and jerked toward me in alarm. Her eyes searched my face, neck, shoulders, until they settled on my right hand. She fell to her knees, the bowl splintering into a hundred shards. She lunged forward, snatching my hand in her own.
That is when I saw the twining symbols decorating my skin. Arcana. I nearly hiccupped with laughter I was so excited. Mama yanked me to her chest and smothered my sound. She wailed to the gods to take my gift away. I felt her soul then, her strength withering away into sorrow and fear. I caressed it, whispering, I am Strength, Mama. Lean on me and yours will not wilt. But fear already had its hold on her. She wouldn’t let me be taken.
She lit a fire and dragged me over to the flames. With desperation breaking her voice, she whispered “I’m sorry,” and shoved my hand into the fire. I don’t remember how long I screamed, but I do remember every tear that slid down Mama’s face.
***
I ran my fingers over the gnarled flesh. It had been eight years since my mother burned off my mark. Mama told me the Arcana would steal me away, torture me. Ruin me. I didn’t believe her until the day I disobeyed her...it was the last day I saw her alive.
I crouched in the alley away from the crowds. I wasn’t near the procession, but I knew the Arcana were here. I felt them, like a prickling on my skin, an ache in my bones, a phantom limb throbbing, a scream scratching at my throat. The procession had begun, but I didn’t want to see it. The streets were riddled with broken and bruised faces, reaching into the path of the Arcana, towards the pristine red robes flapping in the wind—as if the gods themselves knew who marched through the city. The Arcana glided through the streets without even a passing glance to those who worshipped them, those who reached with scarred, withered arms in hopes of salvation. I knew the scene, knew it so well. Because there was a day, when I stood reaching too. I gritted my teeth and shook the memory away.
The hum in my palms vibrated within me. I clenched my fists tighter. No. I bit my lip, those heartless bastards were no part of me. I was classless. Outcast. Just another lost and broken soul waiting to die—hopefully, before one of the King’s Hoard raped or tortured me, or threw me into the arena for the king’s sport of Lion Fighting. I sneered at the word “fighting”. A weak, starved person facing a lion in the arena as the city watched cheering. I never knew if the crowd cheered to give the “fighter” hope, or because they were crazy with bloodlust. But as I heard their twenty-one distinct calls whisper in my mind, and my own reaching up to reply, I knew I was lying to myself. I was not just another citizen of Zorilah. I was Arcana. The last one unfound. Pain shuddered through me as I denied my call.
***
I was eleven when I first saw the Arcana outside the induction arena. The electricity thrummed against my skin. A fierce need to be one of them, to march with pride and honor alongside them grew within me. I lunged for them
: “I am here, my Arcana! Take me home!” I nearly flung myself into the procession. The Arcana heard me, their eyes slanted and piercing. Their voices boomed in unison, “Who said that?”
Mama pulled me out of sight, anger and fear swirling in her eyes. “If they take you, you’ll be a slave. Alina, if they take you, they will use you up until you have nothing left.” She kissed my hands, her lips lingering for just a moment longer on my scars. Tears streamed down her face. “Hide.” She pushed me away so hard I fell against the pavement. By the time I looked up, Mama had run out into the street, screaming “Here I am! I am the one you are searching for.”
That was the last day I saw Mama alive.
***
I shook my head. No, I stayed in the shadows, waiting. They would not find me today.
I flinched as I heard a twig behind me break. Before I could turn, a hand snaked its way around my waist, another over my mouth so I couldn’t scream.
“I’ve been watching you for days, my sweet. Now you are alone, I can have my taste.” A Hoarder. His breath felt hot and putrid against my cheek. I squirmed, bucking and wriggling, trying to get free, but then I felt a knife point on my neck.
A wet tongue slid up my cheek. I nearly gagged when I heard the man’s gravelly moan. “You taste good, darling. I think I will eat you up.”
The Hoarder started hiking up my skirt, his rough, calloused hand on my thigh. I would be defiled in this very alley, shivering in shadows. Was this punishment for hiding from the Arcana? Was this really worth it? Twenty-two humans touched by the gods who could change the course of history and a sixteen-year-old girl about to be raped in a rotten alley was one of them. I felt a single tear slide down my cheek. Even if I screamed, no one would come. Our city was riddled with screams and tears—all courtesy of the King’s Hoard.
I let the power inside me roar to life, the inner vibration making me dizzy, but I felt the tingling in my palms. I lifted my hand to the Hoarder’s forearms and closed my eyes, searching. The man’s soul seemed like black tar sticking to my hands. I wanted to flinch back, but I knew I had to be patient, whisper and nurture the goodness that might be suffocating in the blackness. I called to it, urging it to come out. I am strength. I am the quiet whispering of your soul, your strength will bloom in my hand. My Call echoed out into the shadows, even as my physical body felt the roughness of the man’s hands fondling, his tongue darting out to taste my neck, my face. His fingers crawling their way up to my breasts. The fabric being ripped from me. I couldn’t think about that now. I had to focus.
I called into the shadows coalescing around me. I am the quiet whispering of your soul, your strength will bloom in my hand. I stood in silence, waiting.
But there was nothing to reach for. This man’s soul was nothing but rot and decay. There was no light in him left. No real strength.
My eyes flew open and my senses assaulted me.
I needed to fight.
He roughly turned my head towards his and his chapped, wet lips crushed against my own, just as he started unbuckling his pants. I bit him. I bit down until I tasted blood spurt in my mouth. He yelped, loosening his hold. I jammed my elbow up and back, straight for his nose. Swiveling around as he hunched over to catch his own blood, I kneed him in the groin and turned to run after spitting on his hunched form, and skidded to a stop. I tensed. I felt them before I saw them. A subtle electricity in the air, a pulse tapping against my skin.
Their Calls slammed into me. I wasn’t prepared and my power, already thrumming on my fingertips, sang to them, betraying me. I swallowed hard as I saw the Arcana’s red robes flutter into view.
It only took a few moments for the red robes to fill the narrow space
The King’s Arcana.
I squared my shoulders and faced them. I would not cower, run, or hide.
I also would not kneel as was law.
They stopped before me, silent. Hoods covered their faces. Their voices echoed in my mind in an eerie chorus. Why have you been hiding, sister? Don’t you want to bring glory to your King? Tension crackled in the air.
My mind seethed, screaming. I wasn’t sure if they could hear me, but in my mind I screamed so loud it shook the earth. I am not a slave. There is no glory left on the throne. Just an old man and a black heart. Just a beast who has brought my city to its knees. I gritted my teeth, waiting for the ornate sword sheathed at the Arcana’s waist to slice off my head. I would prefer to be killed in this alley, than wear those red robes, than to wear the mark on my back.
Silence lingered, threatening.
Then one of the Arcana lowered his hood. He had a shock of black hair and pale, perfect skin, which looked so familiar. Where had I seen his face before? He moved so quickly I couldn’t even jerk back. He grasped me by the hands, our palms touching. I gasped as his soul burst to life under my touch. Black earth under a bright sky. His call reverberated in my mind. From these ashes, we will rise. I am the eve of the Rebirth. I am Death.
I yanked myself away from him, stumbling to the ground. He was a man now, but I knew who he was...the timbre of his rolling words, the black hair falling into his eyes, those grey, stormy eyes. I swallowed hard. There he was, the messenger of my dreams. My solace in the night.
Death. He was Death.
His face of hard lines softened. Did he know me? Did he ever dream of me? I was surprised when his cheeks colored slightly and his jaw set as if he could hear my thoughts. His lips quirked up at one corner and he grinned at me. “Not a slave?”
His words cracked through my awe. I shuffled to my feet and stood to face them all, my features trained into a fearless expression. He could hear my thoughts. “Yes.”
“Nothing but a black heart on the throne?”
I clenched my fists tight. Just do it. Kill me and be done with it. “Yes.”
He still stared at me. “A black heart who has brought your city to its knees?”
Dying babies, wailing mothers, screaming daughters, starving men. People hiding in tunnels like rats only to be dragged out and raped or worked to death. This was my city. Broken. I was surprised when my voice quaked. “Yes.”
Death stepped forward. “That is exactly what we wanted to hear.”
The Arcana all removed their hoods and laid their hands on each other’s shoulders, the final two resting their palms on Death’s back. They looked to me and I blinked away my confusion at the expression of pure exhaustion and desperation. Death lifted his hands and in a sudden movement grasped my own, pulling me closer.
I gasped as the souls of twenty-one Arcana whispered their weaknesses to me as well as their hopes, their strengths, their...purpose.
I opened my eyes, quivering.
I knew what was coming.
And I was ready.
Death didn’t let go of my hands as he turned to walk out of the alley.
I didn’t pull away.
***
The sand felt gritty between my fingertips as I knelt on the ground. It was the first sunny day in Zorilah in weeks, and it was blistering. I had spent weeks with the Arcana—beaten by day for the king’s amusement and trained at night.
“Feel the energy just beyond your reach. It will be muted, but it is there,” Death said, pressing my hands to the cement as I tried again to feel the souls in the next room. My eyes clenched shut. Fingertips grazed my cheeks. “Don’t do that,” he whispered.
I opened my eyes. “Don’t do what?”
“Force it.”
The crowd nearly deafened me. I stared, squinting across the arena. Despite the chaos around me, I still heard when the lion roared—a sound so wretched and terrifying I nearly turned to run back to the huge stone doors. My fingers shook on the knife handle. I heard the clinking of the lion’s chains. I still had a few more moments before they unleashed him. Still had a few moments to run.
I was chained to the chair, my arms clasped behind me. Judgment, a young man with flowing blonde hair, and Justice, his twin sister circled me like predators. Their
faces a mask of indifference, but I knew what lurked underneath: despair. They had carried out the king’s “justice” for so long, and they knew if the plan failed, they would be in this chamber for many more years handing out sentences to those who they knew were innocent. They asked me about the hiding places for the classless, my parents, my powers. I knew what their questions would be. I knew how to answer: with silence. My silence was met with their whips. Their expressions never changed, but at night when all was dark and the king slept and the Hoarders roamed, they would come to my chamber, embrace me and beg for my forgiveness. I never faulted them for the pain they caused me. I would bear it. During the beatings, however, Death stood at the side of the king, muscles jumping every time the whip cracked in the air.
He clenched his jaw when I finally met his gaze, the sun blotting out most of his face. I could tell he held his breath. I knew because he always did when he was nervous. It almost made me laugh. But I knew he would sense death here today. And while I knew he wouldn’t say, I wondered if he sensed my own. The horn blew out a loud and long cry. I pivoted away from the Arcana’s seats high up in the distance. It was time.
Death took a wet cloth and cleaned my back of the blood from the twin’s whips. His fingers were gentle against my skin. “I wish there was another way.”
I exhaled sharply. “We shouldn’t wish for things we can’t have. We need to work for the things we can.” I sat up, holding my bloody shirt against my chest. “We can have our Zorilah back, Death...” All of the Arcana were called by their Mark, but with Death’s fingertips still on my back and my face so close to his, it felt wrong to call him that. I had learned all of the Arcana had been taken from their families, all once had names and homes and people who loved them. I didn’t know Death’s name and in that moment, I wanted to. “What was your name?”
His sigh was so fragile and delicate in the dark. “I don’t even remember. I was taken so young.” He moved his fingertips over my scarred hand, then traced them up my arm, my neck, and to my cheek. “I am glad you still have a name, Alina.”
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