by Scott Hale
“I’m sorry I didn’t run. I couldn’t just…”
“Cammie’s going to come.”
“What did you think I’d say when I found out what you and Warren were…?”
“Cammie’s going to come.”
Felix stopped talking.
Gemma kept rocking.
“Cammie’s going to come. Cammie’s going to come. Cammie’s going to come.”
Felix sighed, shed a tear, and rejoined Justine. Even as they headed into Ghostgrave, he could still hear Gemma rocking back and forth, saying, “Cammie’s going to come. Cammie’s going to come.”
Felix smashed a cup of red wine outside the hall where the celebration was being held. It wasn’t the first time he’d had alcohol—he’d had a taste every Mass—but it was the first time he’d actually drunk it for the sole purpose of getting drunk. When he went in for a second cup, Justine intervened and spun his dizzied self around to face the doubled-doors through which they were supposed to enter. This was the back entrance to the hall, private but for the guards posted here, and the odd servant or two. It didn’t seem private though. He could feel the crowd on the other side, their excitement shaking the walls. It sounded like a hive of bees eager to show the size of their stingers.
“Ready?” Justine asked.
He wasn’t. He glanced at Commander Millicent, who’d accompanied them with the living statues and a handful of guards. She ignored him, and her armor squelched as she did so. What was her—
Justine grew tired of waiting for him to answer.
Grabbing his hand, she went to the doors and pushed them open as if they weighed nothing at all.
The uproar he’d heard dropped to a whisper. He had to squint, the light in the hall was so bright. And the heat—all those mouth-breathers crammed into one place—it turned Felix’s armpits into swamps. The wine kicked in hard, his anxiety even harder. The two combined made him feel as if someone were trying to drag him off-stage with a crook, like one of those shepherds might that took Clementine and Will.
Then the whispers began to rise. Then chairs were scooted back. Then the clip-clop of heels on the floor. Drenched in sweat, he started to cool. Shocked with sobriety, he started to see. He squeezed his eyes shut. And when he opened them again, he opened them to hundreds.
The foulest women in the finest dresses and the dumbest men in the smartest suits had come for him. Crammed into the ballroom, elbows were in sides and shoulders in backs, and not a face wasn’t red as the rich and the powerful silently supped on everyone else’s air. From the malnourished ministers that scampered about like wingless birds, the balding penny pinchers with their potato-shaped heads, the fat politicians in their moldering robes, to the calculating dignitaries done up like the whores they’d always aspired to be, not a single stereotype was ignored. If Felix hadn’t known what was going on in the ballroom, he might’ve thought these crude elite were nothing more than Joy’s flesh fiends at their own graduation ceremony.
Their silence bought him some time to scan the scene and secure an escape route, if, as Mackenzie used to say, “Shit got real.” He found himself drawn to the spidery chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, strands of light shared between them. Following their glowing webs with his eyes, he saw they slithered down the back wall, to where a table, multi-tiered and elevated like a courtroom panel, had been installed. On the lowest level were two empty seats; at the middle tier, Isla by her lonesome; and at the top, King Edgar and Valac. There were three empty seats in total beside and between them. One for Felix. One for Justine. And one for Audra.
But where was Audra?
Still holding Justine’s hand, he quickly dropped it. He was god—no, now he was back to just being God’s Speaker—and gods didn’t hold hands, right? Guilt got at him, nagging-like, and he side-eyed Justine. She looked hurt. He’d hurt her feelings. A couple of hours into this changing history business, and it’d already gone to his head. He’d tell her later he was just going through a ‘phase’; that he was just being a teenager. But she wouldn’t buy it. Being a god and being a selfish brat were too similar to tease apart.
I’m such a jerk, he thought.
This moment, five seconds stretched to what felt like five years, abruptly came to a close as his guards broke around him like a wave. Commander Millicent led the charge, the living statues intermingled amongst the soldiers. He and Justine followed the flow, going between the guards cutting a path through the thirsting vultures. They could take any seat in the room, and maybe they should’ve to set a good example. But like Justine had said, they were generic, not brand-name; and Edgar could force him and her down their throats for years to come, as long as they swallowed and didn’t taste. So he kept his distance, distant and aloof, and went with swords and fists and threatening stares to his place above the rest, at the King’s and Anointed One’s sides.
He settled in as his guard scattered out across the ballroom. He’d seen enough of their visitors, here and throughout his life, to say with certainty he’d had his fill. His life was nothing more than over-exaggerated reactions from people like this. To them, he might as well be one of the nameless statues of the previous Holy Children he’d seen back in Cenotaph. They saw him for what he was, not who he was; what he could offer, like Justine said. He stared at the back of Isla’s head. What was the word she’d used once? Objection. No, wait. Objectified, right? Yeah, objectified. That’s how he felt. With that, he felt Samuel Turov, too. He shivered, smelling the odor of that old man—dry skin, crusty lotion, and spit.
Stop, just stop. He took a deep breath, told himself to smile. You’re drunk, and they might not all be that bad. Don’t be a jerk.
Edgar to his right. Valac… to his left. God, he didn’t want to sit next to that creepy slug of a so-called kid. It was too late, though. If he got up, if he changed seats, he might as well cry “Game on” when it came to the war. Despite all the warning signs in his head and his gut, he ignored them. He’d told himself he’d never do that again, the way he had with Turov, but just as before, what choice did he have now?
I could probably kick his ass, he thought. This time, he smiled for real.
Justine sat on the far end of Edgar, further away than Felix would’ve liked. Their guards carried out their orders, taking up posts along the tables and the edges of the ballroom. The living statues, scuffing the beautiful marble floor as they dragged themselves across it, sought out the most optimal spying spots.
Once everyone was in position, Commander Millicent took hers beside Isla. But not for long. There was murmuring about that that seat was reserved for Lotus, who was nowhere to be found. Commander Millicent started to put up a fight, and then her armor began to squelch. She backed down, went down a tier to the ground floor. Felix thought she might’ve glanced back in an apology for not being close enough to protect him should something go wrong. She didn’t.
Edgar rose. With him, came his vermillion cloak, flowing like melted rubies down his back. He had no crown, but he couldn’t have looked any more kingly. Under the spidery chandeliers, his rings shone; and his clothes, a deep black, shone, too, putting off a kind of dull light, when they should’ve been absorbing it, instead. He didn’t look as worn out or scarred up as he had in the attic, but that was because he was wearing at least ten pounds of makeup. That made Felix laugh. Even when you’re the king of everything, still you have to wear a disguise.
“What you are witnessing tonight is history in the making,” Edgar said, his voice filling the room with little effort. “As is often the case, the Disciples of the Deep and the Holy Order of Penance were two warring religions that, in the end, wanted the same outcome. Unfortunately, our past is rife with instances where conflicts could have been solved sooner if both sides had come together and simply listened to one another.
“That is what has happened here. The Holy Child and the Mother Abbess risked their lives making the long journey from not just Cathedra but Penance to Eldrus, all the while providing aid to the Heartland
towns along the way. Though they were deceived and betrayed by the Marrow Cabal and the Compellers, and many of their efforts were undone because of these extremists groups, their intentions, in the end, were pure. They came to our city, the greatest city, to share with us God’s Will.
“The Holy Order continued Lillian’s teachings, but over time, strayed from their meanings. The Mother Abbess was justified in defending her church.”
Murmurs of discontent worked through the crowd.
“As were the Disciples of the Deep in striking back against the Holy Order.”
The murmurs died down.
“We both believed we were correct in our beliefs, but we were both missing integral pieces of God’s testament. What we needed was each other.”
Edgar stared at the seat clearly meant for Audra and continued. “My sister, Audra, who has endured such suffering these last few years, came to us with God’s voice upon her lips. She is God’s Speaker.”
Gasps, shuffling.
“But she is one half of a whole. The Holy Child is the other half. God did not mean for the Disciples and the Holy Order to kill one another, but to come together and share in Its gifts and guidance. The similarities between our churches are undeniable. They are one and the same
“As of today, the war with Penance has ended. God has waited patiently in the south for us to realize the error of our ways, and we have, through the tutelage of the Anointed One.”
Valac, baring his tiny teeth, soaked up the praise like the dirty sponge he resembled.
Edgar put his hands together over his mouth, quickly shoving a vermillion vein into it, probably hoping no one had noticed. But Felix had.
“As you may have noticed,” he went on, “Audra is not here. Fear not, she will join us shortly. Now that the Holy Child… Felix—”
Every mouth dropped open. Every eye went wide. Felix. Felix? The Holy Child’s name was Felix? Holy shit.
“—is here, Audra will begin preparing herself to commune with God. In the meantime, enjoy the food and the wine, and take solace in seeing your future unfold before you. It is truly a rare thing, to see Heaven on the horizon.”
Edgar took a seat. The rich put their clammy hands together and clapped, each one clapping louder and harder than those around them, until the sweat flying off their hands turned to blood. Felix noticed a cup of wine in front of him—Where’d this come from?—and threw it back. Justine shot him a look that said Slow down. He finished off the cup, he just did it slowly. She didn’t like that. He thought it was the funniest shit he’d ever done.
The applause went on for what seemed like hours. At first, Felix refused to smile, but the more they clapped and bled, the more awkward it was to be sitting up there, acting hard. It started as a grin, and then the alcohol stretched it out until his face hurt, he was smiling so hard. It wasn’t long until he was waving at everyone, improvising holy gestures, which the crowd mirrored back at him. Tonight, those dumb little hand movements meant nothing, but tomorrow, they’d be dogma. That’s all it took.
Eventually, the excitement died down. The pompous bloats and their malnourished accessories went back to talking amongst one another, or raiding the long tables for seconds, thirds, fourths, and fifths. No one was brave enough to cross the ballroom, to ask for an audience with Felix. Not yet, at least. But they would. He’d never known flies not to try.
Justine started talking to Edgar about something. Felix perked up and went to listen in when—
“Are you glad that’s over?” Valac asked, his breath smelling of spiced sausage.
Grumbling to himself, he said, “Yeah, definitely.”
Valac drummed his swollen belly. “You and I are the same.”
“We are?” Felix asked, swiping another cup of wine from the long table and pressing it to his mouth, so he wouldn’t have to respond so quickly next time.
“Well, no, we’re not. Is this what it is to be human? To be denied what you deserve?”
Behind the wine cup: “Hmm?”
“I am a part of God. I am Its Harbinger. I should be the one to hear Its word. Don’t you agree?”
“Uh—” he sipped, “—yeah, that makes sense.”
Valac scratched the side of his pockmarked face. His vermillion-flecked eyes rolled around in his skull like specimens in a vial. “Where’re your mother and father?”
Felix choked down the wine. “What?” He wiped his mouth, signaled to Justine, but she wasn’t paying him any attention. “Uh, what? I mean, I don’t know. I never knew them.”
Valac was staring at the chain of Felix’s necklace, the White Worm’s sealing stone. He hid it under his clothes.
“I know what that is,” Valac said.
Tipsy, and well on his way to not giving a damn, Felix said, “I bet you do.”
Valac smiled and sucked on his pointer finger.
“So, uh, what exactly do you do?” Felix asked. “Now that God is awake.”
Valac took his finger out of his mouth with a pop and said, “Did Samuel Turov ever tell you what you tasted like?”
Felix sprung from his chair. One second away from laying Valac out, the far doors flung open.
“Pardon our intrusion,” he heard Joy say, somewhere beyond the crowd, “but the King does like to save the best for last!”
Like the boys and girls had at Felix’s first grade school dance, the crowd parted sharply down the middle; and in the void between them, Joy. She’d come to the celebration, but she hadn’t come alone. Ten to her right, ten to her left—there were people, things, in stark white robes covered in thick, black markings. It was hard to say who or what Joy’s plus-twenties were, because other than their veiny hands and feet, and the lower halves of their quivering faces, everything else about them was covered up. Their robes were so white, though, that… they had to have been made from the same white satin dress Joy wore.
“My name is Joy,” she said, playfully, “and these are my children.”
All eyes, Felix’s included, locked on Edgar, but the King was focused solely on the witch.
“More importantly,” Joy said, “they can be your children.” Joy kicked off the ground and levitated in the air. “I have been sent by God, have I not, my King?”
King Edgar gave her the faintest of nods.
“I am an angel, and I have brought the Choir of God.”
Some of the crowd began to whisper amongst themselves, while others were looking for ways out. Felix’s guards slowly pressed towards Joy and her Choir, hands going red squeezing their swords’ pommels. Commander Millicent was turned all the way around in her chair, her face as pale as Joy’s dress. But when her armor started to squelch, color came back to her cheeks, and she faced the crowd once more.
Felix couldn’t help himself. He leaned over and asked Valac, “Is that… the Cult of the Worm?”
“Not anymore,” he said with such satisfaction.
“Are…” He started to sweat. “Are… are those… flesh fiends?”
Valac ignored him. “They’ve been searching for a song to sing. They’ll sing mine, since no one else will.”
Joy lowered onto the ballroom floor and padded forward on her bare feet. “The Anointed One called us forth from Heaven.” She put her hands together at him in thanks. “The Choir’s purpose is to praise God, to sing the sweetest songs in exultation of the Holiest One. But they can’t do that if the cries of the non-believers muddy their verses, can they? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Joy was asking the lady nearest her. A young debutante with blonde hair who had a fork in her hand, ready to impale the witch on it.
“What good are Speakers, my King, if those who would listen cannot hear?”
King Edgar’s icy stare had frozen over further.
“The Choir carries the tune on which the notes of God manifest.” Joy put her hands on her hips, squeezed her back, making her breasts look larger. “They are much like the now endangered Night Terrors.”
The crowd grew even more
uncomfortable. Felix’s guards were a few feet away from being able to hack off Joy’s arms.
“I know, I know,” she said, again moving towards Felix and the others. “The Night Terrors have held this continent hostage, and in their final moments before extinction, tried to kill us all. Praise be to God for saving us.”
Tens of Praise Bes were murmured throughout the crowd.
“But if they were right about anything, it was that some do not deserve to live.”
Gasps. A few swords were drawn.
“But!” She held up her finger. “It should have never been a matter of thinning out humanity, but thinning out those amongst us who do not believe in God. Because those who do not believe in God would try to destroy It, as they have tried before. God does not fear them. Of course, God doesn’t fear them. But what does that say about us… It’s most devoted followers… if we can’t keep Its garden rid of weeds?”
Are you kidding me? Felix stared at Justine, but still, she refused to look at him. He glanced at Valac, who was all smiles. I’m not letting this happen. This is not happening. He squeezed his wine cup until it cracked. Audra… you didn’t tell me about any of this…
Joy, inches away from Felix’s and the other’s tables, stopped, winked, and spun around to the ground. She gestured to her robed guests, who hadn’t moved an inch from the center of the room, and said, “The Choir are instruments. Yours to rent, at the King’s discretion.”
She curtseyed and stood there, staring out at the crowd. She looked back and forth, back and forth, becoming increasingly annoyed by their silence and distrust. Sighing and slouching, she pinched the bridge of her nose and cried, “They’re assassins. Hire them to kill people you don’t like. Right, my King?”
Again, Edgar nodded weakly.
The thickheaded crowd came alive. They pressed in towards Joy and the Choir, knocking Felix and Justine’s guards out of the way. Question after question built into an incomprehensible swell of greedy desperation. Names were being thrown about. Purses and wallets were being opened. Joy had done her saleswoman pitch, and now, sinking into the frenzy she’d whipped up, she became an auctioneer, valuing crime in accordance to how many of her ‘children’ it would take to carry it out.
