Bloodwitch

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

  She stood and shut the door to the cell in our faces, ending any argument.

  “That’s going to go over well,” Kadee said under her breath.

  “Let’s get Malachi,” I replied. The fact remained that the Shantel had—without my knowledge or consent and with no concern about who might be hurt beyond the vampires—turned me into a plague-bearer. A dozen humans had died, at least, and in some ways it was my fault.

  More died than that, I realized, thinking back to Calysta. She had killed herself for freedom before I even realized we were in a cage. And the Shantel didn’t deserve to enter a marble cage as punishment.

  Alejandra had already gone by the time we stepped into the hall. When we opened the door to the lower cells, we found Malachi standing right behind it.

  “Much obliged,” he said to Kadee. Then, “Vance … I’m sorry.”

  He had said that to me too often, it seemed. I almost said something sharp, as I had most of the other times, but I realized that no one else was likely to express sympathy. Malachi was probably the only one who would ever understand what the trainers, Midnight’s evil masters, had once been to me.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “Are you all right now?” The last time I had seen him, he had been completely unresponsive.

  “Sometimes the only thing louder than the past is the possible future,” Malachi answered unintelligibly. “It’s … overwhelming.” He pushed past us as if desperate for fresh air.

  Kadee and I exchanged a glance, then hurried in the same direction. When we caught up to Malachi at the front gates, his eyes still held a wide, dazed expression as he stared up at the stone edifice that was Midnight proper.

  Kadee asked, “Where to now, Vance?”

  I looked around, but there was no guidance to be found here.

  There was only one other place I knew, so that seemed as good a place to start as any. “I guess I will go look for the Azteka,” I answered. “I don’t know where Alejandra went, but I hope I’ll find her in the market. I’m not sure I’ll stay, but it’s somewhere, for now. Alejandra promised I would be well treated.”

  Kadee nodded. “You’ll have to walk. You don’t want Jeshickah accusing you of stealing her horse.”

  “I could fly part of the way.”

  “I’ve seen you fly,” Malachi said. “You’re slower in the air than you are on the ground. We can walk together until we reach the Obsidian camp—if you trust me.”

  “You’re not worried about my knowing where it is?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “You already know enough to have us all given to Midnight,” Kadee answered. “The way I see it, we either have to kill you or trust you. You have the same choice to make about us. Do you trust us?”

  Did I?

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t seem to be a good judge of who to trust, but I wouldn’t kill someone just because she might hurt me.”

  “That’s fair,” she answered.

  We started on our way, stepping off the road whenever we heard anyone approach. None of us wanted to be seen, stopped, or spoken to by outsiders.

  Malachi froze before I even realized we had reached the Obsidian camp. His gaze was locked with his sister’s. I remembered what Torquil had said about Misha sending Malachi away.

  He drew back and said to me, “I’ll walk you to the market.”

  “You need to face her eventually,” Kadee said, dogging our heels.

  “I know. But not yet.”

  If Misha hadn’t driven her brother away, I wondered, would I still be in the greenhouse? Malachi wouldn’t have come to the greenhouse that day to escape from the storm. Would Calysta still have killed herself if Malachi hadn’t reminded her of who she had once been? Maybe. Probably, eventually. Surely I would have frozen to death in the woods if I had never found him.

  Or he might have killed me, I thought, if he hadn’t already been so alone, and felt so guilty.

  I didn’t want to think about that.

  We reached the market. As soon as we saw the Shantel stall, we understood the purpose of one of the carts that had passed us during our walk.

  The wooden structure was piled with bodies in varying stages of decay. Each wore a black collar and the simple clothes of Midnight’s slaves. Beneath, their skin was either black or a putrid gray-green, swollen and split to leak the same foul bile I had seen in the blood of the slave Malachi had killed in front of me. Rotten fluids had leaked across the Shantel trade goods.

  Words were scrawled in dark ink at the top of the stall.

  “It says, ‘These are not our dead,’ ” one of the nearby Shantel merchants provided. “Midnight gave the pochteca permission to dispose of the corpses, and they chose to leave them here.”

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  “The Azteka wanted to make it clear who was to blame,” the merchant said. “Now I need to take the message back to our king, so he can decide whether to pay for this crime with his blood, or to risk Midnight’s consequences for defiance.”

  “What will he do?” I asked.

  “He will probably consult the sakkri,” he answered. “She provides our spiritual guidance. They will decide together what is best.”

  “They will decide,” Kadee said. “The king and the princes and the sakkri will decide. Why don’t they ask the hunters, or the merchants, or the mothers and fathers and children whether or not they want to fight?”

  “That’s why we have leaders,” the Shantel merchant replied. “Someone needs to make decisions.”

  These are not our dead, the Azteka had written. No one would claim them. They were simply casualties of a conflict no one wanted responsibility for. I searched the swollen faces, and recognized too many. Elisabeth’s was half visible in the middle of the mass.

  “Some of the humans recently rebelled against their king,” Kadee remarked, almost idly. “They didn’t like the decisions he was making for them, so they got rid of him.”

  We all stared at the pile of bodies. “Do the Azteka have kings?” I wondered aloud.

  “Yes,” the merchant answered. “Well, priest-kings, I believe. Bloodwitches from the ruling caste, instead of the pochteca.”

  “But with all their power, they don’t fight either?”

  “Come away, Vance,” Kadee said, grabbing my arm to pull me back from the merchant.

  “No, I want to know.” I yanked away from her. “If Midnight does nothing good for any of you, then why do you bow to it? Why do you bow to your kings if they do not fight when you want to fight? Why did the only one of you brave enough to fight need to do so in secret?”

  “Look where it got him,” the merchant replied. “Look where it got all of us.”

  Do you know where it almost got you? I wondered. I couldn’t ask that, though, because no one could know that we had nearly assassinated Jeshickah … unless, I supposed, we managed to try again. Until that opportunity arose, though, it would be better if we kept the information to ourselves, just as the Shantel deathwitch had done.

  How many years had he lived in exile on the faith that an opportunity would come? How many jeers and how much disdain had he suffered, only to fail at the end because the Azteka were too afraid to be blamed for the trainers’ deaths?

  “What about you?” I asked Kadee and Malachi.

  “What about us?” Malachi replied.

  “You said the Obsidian guild refused to follow any king. So you end up fighting everyone, dealing with Midnight to protect your own people, scrounging for food and basic necessities.”

  “Yeah?” Kadee challenged.

  “It’s just that … well, I grew up with every luxury Midnight has to offer.” I remembered Malachi’s tirade about the serpents’ dance, though the words struck me very differently now than they once had. “I don’t know how to hunt. I don’t know how to survive in the forest. I’ve almost never gone hungry and I’ve usually had a soft bed to sleep on.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Malachi replied.
He turned his back on me and wondered aloud, “Should we do something about this pile of bodies? It stinks.”

  “Burn it,” Kadee replied.

  Perhaps they both knew I needed a few moments to complete my thoughts and prepare myself to take this next step. They consulted briefly with the Shantel merchant, then sought kindling, flint, and steel. Midnight’s dead—our dead—would soon be gone to smoke and ash. Just like the life I had once had.

  “I have nothing but the clothes I’m wearing,” I said as we all watched the pyre begin, “and I know almost nothing of use, but I learn fast. Will you have me?”

  “If we haven’t made it clear already,” Kadee said, “the Obsidian guild is officially fugitive. We can walk through this market freely because it is considered Midnight’s land, but a lot of the shapeshifter nations have decrees to arrest or kill us on sight if we cross into their territory … which we do, when we need to. Right now you have an invitation to return to the Azteka. A bloodwitch is barely a step below royalty. Your lifestyle would be more like the one to which you are accustomed.”

  “Yes, it would be,” I replied, thinking of Calysta, and Felix and Elisabeth and Joseph, the children in the east wing, and all the slaves who had cooked for me and cleaned up after me most of my life. I thought about Celeste, who had to be protected and taken care of but would never be considered worthy even of a golden cage. Then I thought about Misha, who had gone into a trainer’s cell, and how for folk like us it’s better not to give too much thought to what happened to her there.

  I had been taught that kneeling to Jeshickah was polite, and right, because she was better than I was. Maybe this was the potential Jaguar had seen in me: I didn’t want to be polite. I didn’t want to be led. I didn’t want to be comfortable if that meant I needed to accept that my comfort came by the grace of those who were more important than I could ever be, and on the backs of others who were less than dirt beneath my feet.

  “I think it would be just like that,” I said.

  Kadee smiled and shook her head.

  “You’re in for a rude awakening, little bird.”

  “At least I’ll be awake,” I countered.

  I jumped back as a spark from the Shantel merchants’ stall, now turned into a pyre, fell on my arm. As I brushed ash from my skin, Kadee said, “It’s nice to meet you, Vance Obsidian.” She flung an arm across my shoulders and turned me away from the burning bodies.

  “You’re mad, Vance,” Malachi said. “But welcome to the family.”

  I turned to see him staring at the fire, a pale shadow in front of the flickering flames. I wondered if he, too, was thinking about his prophecy, in which Misha would take the serpiente throne and Midnight would fall to flames just like these.

  As I understood it, the empire had stood in some form for four hundred years. What was the likelihood that our generation would see its end?

  And when it fell, would I rejoice, or would I cry?

  Only time would tell.

  All I knew was, whether the walls were rough stone or golden bars, a quetzal couldn’t live in a cage.

  AMELIA ATWATER-RHODES wrote her first novel, In the Forests of the Night, when she was thirteen. Her most recent novels are Poison Tree and Promises to Keep. Visit her online at AmeliaAtwaterRhodes.com.