by Daryl Banner
So much blood, poison, and bone.
I can’t endure this much longer without you, Dran. I want to join you in the after realm. I want to hold you in my tired, blood-drenched arms and kiss you without the poison. Dran, my love, my life …
Mercy lies on her bed when the sun falls, folding her arms over her chest and staring at the ceiling. No matter the “good work” her days bring, the nights are hell. The Sisters Of Sisters lie in beds at night, just as the Ancients once did, and they must close their eyes and dream as the Dreaming Sister does. Of course none of them truly sleep—no adult in this world does—but when the women allow themselves five uninterrupted hours of pure meditation a night, they apparently grow closer to Three Goddess and to the peace that is promised to come. Of that, they are quite convinced: there is a long and everlasting peace awaiting everyone in Atlas. Yes, Mercy darkly agreed when she heard those words, and it’s called death.
“We do not meddle in our own selfish needs,” the kind lady explains to a newcomer over breakfast the following morning. “The city has too many needy, too many wanting, too many hungry. We devote ourselves only to others, and thereby, to the Sisters. Atlas is a living, breathing thing, and we must serve her the best we can.”
Mercy glances at the newcomer, then freezes at the sight. The new Sister Of Sisters is not a “sister” at all. He is a gentle-eyed man with a tiny mouth, a button nose, and large, otherworldly eyes. Not a speck of facial hair blemishes his face. He’s likely twenty or so years of age, if Mercy had to guess. If he wears his years nicely, he could even pass for halfway-to-thirty. His yellow hair is short and simple, parted neatly to the side, and his smooth, peachy skin looks as soft and untouched as a baby’s.
“I shall serve,” he murmurs so quietly, it sounds like a whimper. Then he turns his pretty eyes to Mercy.
She looks away and returns her full attention to the bowl in front of her. She doesn’t question why a man is allowed to join their like and she doesn’t care. Judging from the indifferent expressions on the others’ faces, no one else seems to either.
It’s that night that she decides to leave. She yanks open a drawer and pulls out her things. It isn’t much: the jeans she wore when she arrived nineteen days ago, Dran’s fingerless gloves she likes to wear so that she’s always holding his hand, a tiny container of ashes she uses to spread around her eyes … and the dull ring Dran gave her as a symbol of their wedding that will never happen. ‘I name the star right there, right by the moon, I name it the black star of mercy.’ She stares at the ring, lost in a memory of her and the love of her life.
“Please don’t leave.”
Mercy turns toward the door. Lady Agdanagon stands there, the oldest one with a bun of grey hair and dark wrinkly skin who they all call Mother. She is true sisters with the one who has kind, twinkly eyes. She is the one who quietly runs the Sisters Of Sisters from her private chambers from which she rarely leaves.
“There’s nothing but madness out there,” the Lady continues. “Of course, I don’t know much of it. I’m stuck in a room most of the day. Oh, if I’m quite honest, I think I’ve spent more time in that room in the past forty years than I have anywhere else in all of Atlas my whole life.” She chuckles, folds her arms, then leans against the wall. The sleeves of her grey robe hang so low, they brush along the floor when she moves her hands.
Mercy considers her. “I can’t pretend-sleep. It is too painful.”
“What pains you, dear?”
Him. It’s always him. “My past,” she answers vaguely. “I’ve done things I cannot undo. I’ve lost things I’ll never get back. I’ve thrown away my life without throwing a damn thing.”
“Except that knife you keep beneath your mattress.”
Mercy squints at the old woman, suspicious at once. “So you’ve been sneaking around my room, then?”
“I wish I were that interesting.” When the woman chuckles, she sounds like the squeaking of gears in an old machine. “It was an innocent discovery. I like to replace the linens when you are all going about your daily duties. It reminds me of my days as a mother when I’d look after my children, cleaning up after them, sorting their clothes and cooking their meals. I’ve always been a mother. Terrible habit to kick, and cruel yet to watch your little kids run off into the world and … oh, but what’s a mother to do with an empty house?”
“Grow old with your lover,” Mercy says bitingly.
“Ah, but I have, I have. Every day I grow old and older with him, even if his face remains the same.” She brings a few fingers to her cheek, her eyes drifting off. “When Good King Michold called upon my husband for a very important duty, we screamed with delight and threw a celebration. All our friends joined us. Oh, but if I only knew the following morning when my husband went off to the Lifted City that that would be the last time I’d see him alive …” She shakes her head. “Yes, but the good thing is, when I see him each night, his face is always young. And somehow, so is mine. Dreams are not always painful. Pain … is not always painful. More often than you realize, pain is your only reliable friend.”
Mercy sits down on the corner of the bed, her clothes in her lap and Dran’s ring in her palm.
“Try to dream,” Lady Agdanagon urges her. “Your body has not forgotten. You dreamt once as a child, and you’ll dream again now. It will remember. You may not find the true sleep, of course, but your mind will find the peace you crave. There is something quite special in a person who can dream, who can rest, who can gather strength of mind whilst others suffer and bear it twenty-four hours a day.”
“I can’t,” groans Mercy, shutting her eyes.
“Please. Give us one more night at the very least.” The woman’s robes shuffle as she crosses the room and lifts Mercy’s face with a finger under her chin. Mercy opens her eyes to meet the woman’s. “If after one night you still wish to go, then the doors are open, and you are free to turn over your greys. No guilt. No reprimand. You are here of your will and you may depart just the same.”
“Then I will stay here one night and leave on the morrow,” Mercy says stubbornly. “One more night I’ll give this place, but when that sun paints the glass of my window, I’m leaving no matter.”
“The decision is yours,” the Lady finishes somberly. “It always was.” Then, with a gentle nod, she glides across the room, shutting the door at her back as quiet as a sigh.
Mercy lies down on the bed clutching the ring and her clothes. She slips the ring on her finger, anger turning in her stomach for too long a time, until finally she gives in and allows her eyes to close. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she sees Dran’s smile. She hears the banter of the boys from The Wrath, all of them wearing their blacks, all of them laughing, then listening intently as Dran shares with them another story, another tale, another misadventure.
She huffs, breaking the memory and flipping open her eyes. “Not even another night,” she decides, jaw tight, head throbbing. “I will depart now.”
But she doesn’t move. Still lying on her back, she slowly brings her fingers to the edge of the mattress. Running them along, they happen on the subtle bump of an object hidden there.
Fingers tracing the retractable knife—her gift from Dran—she suddenly finds a smile on her face.
“I am blood … and bone … and poison … in the shape of a very sharp and loyal friend,” she whispers to herself, then closes her eyes once more.
0147 Wick
“It’s just a supply run to the eleventh,” he tells Athan after he’s already geared up to go. “I’ll be back before Lionis even turns on a stove for dinner.”
“I’m feeling really anxious about this.”
Wick places his hand on Athan’s shoulder. “I went just last week to the eleventh, remember? We have a path that even avoids the major streets. Cuts straight through the Core, skirts the broken rail in tenth that we took on our way here …”
“Shouldn’t we listen to my instincts, though? I feel like there’s something wrong,�
�� Athan insists, pressing a hand to his chest as if to measure his own heartbeat.
Wick puts his own hand atop Athan’s, boring his eyes into his boy’s. “If that were the case, I’d feel it too. If you sense danger and I’m nearby, I sense it too.” Athan studies Wick’s face skeptically, the worry clearly evident in his shimmering blue eyes. “I sense nothing. Except a deep, heart-racing desire to kiss you. And tear off all your clothes and pin you against the wall while I have my way.”
“Still an option,” Athan tries to jest, but his humor falls flat with the worry still dominating his nerves, by the look of it.
“Maybe Gandra will let you come along on the next,” Wick reasons. “Then we don’t have to separate.”
“She doesn’t trust me.”
Wick lifts an eyebrow. “Why would you think that? Of course she trusts you. She likely trusts you the most of all of us, what with those sweet, innocent eyes of yours.” He lets on a light smile and kisses Athan, feeling the warmth of his soft lips.
Athan kisses him back, then pulls away to say, “She trusts my character, but she doesn’t trust my stability.” His eyes meet Wick’s. “She treats me like I’m, at all times, a minute away from snapping. They don’t know what to expect from me. I’ve suffered a great loss, I know, but it’s nothing compared to what you Lower City citizens have suffered all your lives.”
How could he play down his own tragedy like that? “Slumborn. You can call us slumborn, Athan. Not one of us would be offended.”
“Soon, when order is reestablished, we’ll all just be citizens of Atlas, Lifted and Lower alike.” Athan forces a smile, gives Wick another kiss on the lips. “Maybe I am a minute from snapping.”
“You have more self-control than you realize. Gandra ought to trust that.”
“You too,” Athan returns. “Be back quickly.”
An hour after that exchange, Wick and Juston are tranquilly trekking through the streets leading to the Core, a monstrous twist of Pylons and enormous buildings and fallen pieces of the center of the Lifted City. Entire roads are blocked by collapsed towers and huge blocks of cement, some from the slums, some from the city above. Only twice do Wick and Juston find themselves hiding behind an obstruction, unnoticed by some band or grouping of people walking by—whether brigand or innocent citizen, it doesn’t matter; no one can be trusted in times of anarchy.
A square they usually skirt around on their runs to the eleventh ward is populated by clusters of people in tents with tiny campfires burning, who may or may not be totally peaceful and unthreatening. Wick suggests they mask their passing with a blanket of white noise that the people might discount as rain or wind, but Juston doesn’t trust his ability to make it sound convincing. Having been around Juston enough, Wick smirks and reaches into his partner’s Legacy, producing his own blanket of noise that is richly layered with bumps and shuffling of winds to mask perfectly their footsteps. Juston lifts an eyebrow at Wick, then admires his handiwork and says, “Thanks for using my Legacy better than I do, asshole,” with a teasing nudge. Wick responds with a cocky grin. The two make it across the square without even a glance or a suspicious whisper in their direction.
It isn’t until they actually reach the eleventh ward that they face a true obstacle. The east entrance to the warehouse from which they pilfer supplies has been crushed in and blocked by falling debris from the Lifted City—namely, an enormous house-sized slab of cement that might have been some Lifted street or piece of the underbelly. But that’s not the cause for concern. A couple of rogues are standing near the only other entrance: the north one. One rogue is a big, built man with broad muscular shoulders that are encased in thick metal armor that covers half his torso, his firm abdomen exposed as if the armor doesn’t properly fit him. He wears a helmet, too, likely stolen from the abandoned Guardian headquarters near the Dark Abandon. The other rogue is slender and shirtless, wearing no helmet and no armor. His whole chest and back are decorated in extravagant ink.
Wick and Juston stay behind a toppled statue of some past queen, her stone body wide enough to hide them both as they watch the two living obstacles from across the road. Are they here for the same supplies, or completely ignorant of them?
“Go away,” Juston quietly hisses to himself. “Fuck. I wish they’d just fuckin’ leave so we can get our shit and get back.”
Wick’s eyes narrow. “I could really, really use Victra’s Legacy right about now. If I jumped into their eyes, maybe I could see what’s got their interest.” He turns to Juston. “Should I call upon Arrow?”
Juston sighs. “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead.”
Pressing a finger to his ear, Wick whispers, “Arrow. Come in. We have a problem.”
It’s Prat’s voice that crackles in instead. “Arrow’s on a run of his own, apparently. It seems Gandra’s juggling us all around. So it looks like you’ve got me, Wicky-poo.”
Wick growls. “Don’t you dare call me that.”
“I heard Athan call you that once and just couldn’t resist.” Prat’s breathy, voiceless chuckling fills Wick’s ears through the earpiece.
The two rogues across the street pull open the north door, then slip inside. The big armored one takes an extra second to poke his head out, as if checking that he isn’t being followed, then lets the door shut ungently behind him.
“Two people are in the supply building,” Wick whispers to his earpiece. “Arrow gave us a few charms to plant in the building itself. Are you picking up anything in there?”
“Hmm.” There is a moment of silence as Prat checks, Wick has to assume. He glances at Juston, the two of them sighing impatiently. Then: “I hear nothing. This would be a lot easier with eyes.”
Juston nudges Wick. “Don’t you hang onto Legacies when you learn them? Can’t you, like, channel Victra or something and get us some visual into that building?”
Wick sneers at his partner, annoyed. “You know damn well I need the person within proximity to use their power.”
“But, like, how much of a proximity?”
“Near me. Like, maybe five feet? Ten? You practiced with me. You know this.” Wick curses. “She should’ve come. This is fucked.”
“Wait, wait. I think I hear them talking.” A long silence passes. “Nope, false alarm. Was hearing a charm from the edge of eighth. Hey, Wick, you ever been back to that pleasure house there? The one with the Eddy boy?”
Edrick, he means; the one whose Legacy is long-distance hearing. Wick doesn’t think back on that self-important Sanctum-butthole-licker with any trace of fondness. “Didn’t Arrow take an earpiece with him on his run?” he asks, ignoring Prat’s question. “We need to get in that building, whether with ears, eyes, or our damn selves.”
“Uh …” Scraping sounds cut through their ears; Prat scrambling for yet another answer he doesn’t have.
Juston shakes his head. “I say we just go in and deal with them.”
“With what weapons?” Wick spits back. “I have a dagger. They have a big armored guy and who knows what else? We don’t even know what dangerous Legacies they are armed with.”
Juston leans into Wick, strands of his usually messy blond hair sticking to his forehead from sweat. “Their Legacies are our weapons too. More specifically, yours.”
That idea worries Wick. Reaching out and using powers I don’t even know? Though it is a logical conclusion to come to, Wick finds the notion of randomly reaching out for others’ Legacies unsettling and reckless. That’s like fumbling for a blade in the dark, unsure of which end you’ll grab hold of. Wick could easily harm them both if he mishandles an unknown Legacy so blindly.
Juston reads the look on his face. “You underestimate yourself.”
“You overestimate me.”
“Dream big, remember?”
“Gandra is not here.” Wick glares darkly at the entrance to the building, frustrated. “She’s the reason we’re here. Gandra, who safely hides away in her tower in the sixth while we’re sent out like rats into the city. We sho
uld skip today’s run, head home, and make it back on the morrow,” Wick decides. “I won’t risk it.”
“But these supply runs aren’t Gandra’s,” Juston argues back. “If it were her will, she’d keep us safe in the hideout, just like when we were in that dark, secret room at the back of a jeweler’s closet last month. We’re being sent on runs for the Warden, Wick. If we return empty-handed, we run the risk of losing our place in that tower.”
“He wouldn’t kick us out on account of being safe. Don’t be a fool, Juston.”
“I’m going in. I can take the both of them.” Juston unsheathes a long, serrated blade, nearly the size of a short sword. “You haven’t yet paid witness to my impressive swordplay.”
“Juston, don’t.”
Juston does. He slips out from behind the statue and makes his way across the street, edging the building to the north door. Wick’s heart goes into his throat, his hand instinctively clutching the dagger at his belt. ‘You hold your life in your own hands now,’ Rone told him the day he gifted him this dagger during a training match back at the Noodle Shop. ‘No one can take it unless you hand it to them.’
Wick presses a finger to his ear. “Juston’s gone ahead. I have to follow him. Pay attention to the inside, Prat. Try not to say anything unless you must. The rogues can hear. I’m counting on you.”
“Arrow didn’t take an earpiece. We’re alone,” complains Prat. “Wick, I don’t trust this. Please convince Juston to come back.”
“I’m the only one with a charm in my ear,” answers Wick. His jaw tightens as he watches Juston slip through the doors. “Fuck. I have no choice, Prat. Cover me.”
“How??”
Wick abandons the safety of the toppled statue and pushes to the edge of the building, skirting around it to the north door. Juston left it a crack open, so Wick slips inside like a shadow. He moves soundlessly down the long corridor he’s been in four or five other times. His right hand never leaves the handle of the dagger at his belt. Each time he stops to listen, he hears nothing. How far could Juston have possibly gone? Wick was only thirty seconds behind him at most.
