Fragile Chaos

by Amber R. Duell

  Try.

  The word feels far away. My teeth click together, the only thing telling me I’m shaking, and Nessa hands me a book of matches. A fuzzy part of my brain screams, Fire! Set the place ablaze. Escape. Run.

  Run.

  “Light the candle,” she says.

  My fingers shake as I try to strike the match. The flimsy stick snaps, and I fumble to free another from the inside flap. Nessa finally takes pity and strikes the flint herself, setting it carefully between my fingers. I mumble the same mantra I said at the first three altars. “Astra, Goddess of Love, please accept this tribute.” The words are mine. I hear my voice speaking them, but I don’t feel my lips moving.

  “Good.” She takes the matches and ushers me back into the main chamber. Ciro waits with a wide smile, the gun still in his hand, and I blanch. “One more and then you can have a bath.”

  A bath will be nice.

  My insides smolder. No. It won’t be nice. It will be bad. Very bad. I have to run. Run…somewhere. Because…There’s a reason. I’m sure of it.

  Under the final archway, a tall, smooth bowl sits on the altar with a needle-like blade beside it. “Stab it,” Nessa instructs.

  “Stab…” My breath rasps. I lean forward to peer in the bowl. A long brown rat sits on its haunches, staring back. I’ve never killed anything bigger than a spider. There are some big spiders in Kisk, but still. Definitely never anything cute and fuzzy. Never anything that could look as terrified as this rodent does with its beady eyes and puffed out whiskers.

  Nessa takes a deep breath. “Do you think we gave her too much?” she whispers to Ciro. He whispers back, but I don’t understand. “I’ll help. Start with the words.”

  “Le…Leander, God of Death.” My tongue fills my mouth and I scowl at the creature. What am I doing? “Please ac…accept this tribute.”

  The ivory handle of the blade finds my palm. Nessa’s fingers blend perfectly around mine. I can’t tell where my hand ends and hers begins. There’s no time to think before the tiny sword plunges mercilessly down at the brown rat. A high-pitched squeal echoes through the small room and the poor thing twitches. Its sides move with rapid, worried breaths for another moment before it falls limp.

  My knees buckle but Ciro is there. The gun is gone, probably tucked safely away somewhere beneath the black robes. He carries me from the final alcove and down a flight of stairs behind Theodric’s altar. I watch the doors disappear on the other side of the temple.

  The doors. They were important before. I can’t remember why.

  Fluorescent bulbs hang bare on the ceiling of a yellow room at the bottom of the steps. An oval pool, filled to the brim with milky white liquid, is set into the ground.

  Not a pool. A smile curls on my lips. A bath.

  Ciro sets me in a wicker chair beside a rolling trolley covered in assorted bottles. “I’ll wait outside.”

  Nessa descends upon me, pulling at my clothes and cutting the rubber band from my snarled hair. I let her even though I never would’ve allowed anyone to see me naked thirty minutes ago. When she eases me into the bath, it’s worth it. The scent of jasmine makes my eyelids flutter shut. I giggle as a cup of water splashes over my head. Stiff fingers rub circles against my scalp before more water flows over me. She washes my hair three times before scrubbing my body with a rough sponge.

  Pull her in. Hold her under.

  I fight a yawn. Why shouldn’t I be here? It’s rather nice. There’s a bath. And the tributes have been painless.

  Not for the rat.

  “Out you come,” Nessa says.

  She hoists me up, patting me dry much too soon, and produces a white wrap dress. The gauze-like material slips over my shoulders and cinches shut with a wide ribbon. I glance down at the elbow length sleeves and examine the intricate white embroidery there. “Pretty,” I say.

  “Hold still.” Her fingers work through my wet hair, twisting it into a low, tight bun. Bobby pins scrape the nape of my neck, but all I feel is slight pressure. “There. Done.”

  She leads me from the room and Ciro nods. He helps me climb the stairs myself this time. There are a lot of them. It didn’t feel like this many on the way down. “You should put in an elevator,” I mumble.

  The main room is full of men and women in black. More than I expect. A dozen, at least. I thought only a handful lived here. My head lolls to the side. “I think you made a mistake,” I whisper into Ciro’s ear. “My dress is the wrong color.”

  “It’s not a mistake.” He pats my shoulder. “Thank you for your sacrifice, Cassia Stavros.”

  I giggle again. What is wrong with me? Get out! Go!

  “The next part is simple.” He walks toward the altar. “After this, it will all be over.”

  “Okay.” I totter after him.

  “Stand here.” Ciro lifts me by my upper arms and sets me on my feet in the pit. It’s taller than I am by at least two feet.

  Pit. The pit.

  My brain claws at the fog shrouding my rational thought.

  “Theodric.” Ciro’s voice booms through the cavernous main room. “God of War, please accept this sacrifice for the good of Kisk. Save us from the enemies that plague us. Bring us peace.”

  The sword from the altar looks heavy in his hand as he looms over the opening. When did he pick that up? I stretch onto my toes, trying to connect the dots, but it’s too hard to think. Pit. Sword. Sacrifice. I shake my head, but it only sends a wave of dizziness crashing over me.

  “Wait.” My voice is a hoarse whisper.

  I reach up, trying to find purchase so I can pull myself up, and Ciro snatches my wrist. His outline is blurry. I catch the flash of the blade a moment before it slices down my forearm in one swift, clean motion.

  Blood pours down my elbow and splashes at my feet. This should hurt. But it doesn’t. I stare, transfixed, at the crimson river.

  This should definitely, absolutely hurt.

  Then blackness creeps into my vision, swallowing me into nothingness.

  Usually I relish the aroma of old paper mixing with the sharper scent of metal that emanates from the wall of weapons. Swords and shields, guns and grenades, all arranged on either side of the solid French doors leading from the war room to the rest of the mansion. Books and maps are scattered throughout the rest of the room. They hang from walls, cover tables, and line shelves. My personal sanctuary—the place every war ever waged began and ended.

  But today I find no solace here. The prayers of the Kisken high priest buzz through my head, a soft, incessant whisper, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else. It’s my fault. Ciro hasn’t been this pious in months. I thought he had finally given up begging for help, and I became careless maintaining the mental block.

  I lay on the padded bench beneath a tall, arched window with my eyes shut and concentrate on stacking the imaginary wall higher. Each brick dulls his murmurs. Every layer of mortar brings me closer to sanity. The last thing I want to listen to all day is Theodric, hear our prayers over and over. And over. Not when I have to deal with the result of the blocked highway, whatever it may be. Once I’ve reclaimed my privacy, I’ll check the briefs from my spies to see who ended up with the weapons. But so help me, if the Kiskens couldn’t manage one small convoy…

  “Theodric?” I groan at the sound of my adviser’s voice and lace my fingers over my abdomen. Boots thud in the entryway, almost a run, before the door to the war room slams open. “Theodric,” he says between heavy breaths.

  “Not now, Goran.” I sigh and squint at the ceiling. “Just leave the reports on the desk.”

  “Yes, now.” The blond general looms over me with hard brown eyes. Red splotches coat his pale cheeks. “We have a problem.”

  “What?” I glower at him. “Did the road block fail? I can’t handle another visit from Ebris right now.”

  “There’s a new sacrifice in the temple,” he blurts.

  I sit up and grab the reports from his hand. Ciro mentioned one earlier, but I
hoped he hadn’t gone through with it. There isn’t much more I can do for Kisk without soldiers. The only government sanctioned ones left on the island are from Asgya or Volkana, and all they’re interested in is killing each other. “Does he seem useful? Do you have any idea what they want in exchange?” Goran remains quiet while I flip open the first folder and skim the pages. He’s never silent. “What is it?”

  “It’s…” He pauses.

  I exhale, my agitation growing the further I get into the report. “Asgya commissioned a new fleet with nonexistent funds, and a rebellion is stirring. Volkana is clustering forces on their eastern border, and this priest won’t stop today. I don’t have the patience for this. Take him to the Wall if you think it’s manageable, and I’ll factor in the sacrifice when we strategize this afternoon.” I swing my feet to the ground, standing, and toss the reports on the desk beside a rolled canvas.

  When I turn to Goran, he’s wringing his hands, too nervous to speak. He’s been with me long enough to know what that means. “There’s more,” I say.

  “It’s a girl,” he answers in a hushed voice.

  I stand still as stone. It takes a moment to register, but when it does, rage explodes through my body, sending heat racing across my skin. The legs of the desk scrape the floor as I push away from it. The words barrel through me, stealing the air from my lungs. “Will they never learn?” I shout.

  I have never, since the beginning of time, accepted a female sacrifice. The mortals always believe their offering will be more appealing than the last—prettier, sweeter, stronger. That I’ll change my mind this once, and they’ll be saved. Swaying one battle in exchange for another manservant is one thing; with my power limited I need them. But no woman is worth giving up control of a war. An entire war.

  “Kisk?” I ask. None of the other high priests have been bothering me with sacrificial mutterings. Or any mutterings at all, for that matter.

  “By the looks of her,” Goran says.

  I grab my leather scabbard from where it leans in the corner and strap the broadsword to my hip. The scroll work is minimal—a simple lattice running along one side, making the hilt of the sword with its ribbed center and ruby end the focal point. Dispatching a bride to the Netherworld with it is usually nothing more than a simple inconvenience; a quick walk to the temple and it’s over in a matter of minutes. With Ebris breathing down my neck, it’s a disaster. I’ll hear about it when he finds out exactly how desperate the Kiskens are. But, regardless, the girl has to meet the same fate as the others. I can’t afford to do anything else.

  “Are you sure?” Goran asks.

  “Each time you ask that, and each time I have the same reply,” I say in a low, steady voice. Colored glass pieces tremble on the war table, shifting positions, falling, when I brush against the curved base on my way out. “I don’t need to be obliged to anyone. You know this.”

  He hurries after me. “Of course I do, but maybe we could find something else to do with her. You aren’t technically accepting if…”

  If I don’t take her as my bride. A loophole I’ve always known but never bothered to use to my advantage. These girls come here for one reason: to save their country. They aren’t likely to accept my decision to remain neutral. To do what’s best for the war as a whole. It would mean their death was for nothing; that their loved ones would still perish.

  “I don’t need her wandering about distracting me, either,” I say.

  “If you insist,” he grumbles.

  “You don’t have to like it, Goran.” He follows me across the tan marble flooring of the entryway. Past granite statues of men in different suits of armor and dark paneled walls. “I keep you around for your military expertise, not your opinion on would-be brides.”

  “You don’t listen to me in either arena,” Goran says. I scowl at him over my shoulder, but he simply shrugs. “It’s true. I don’t know why you bother asking.”

  “I didn’t ask.” I open the front door, scrolls of wrought iron trapped between glass, and step into the morning sun. “And just because I don’t agree with you, doesn’t mean I don’t listen.”

  Servants scatter from the courtyard, rushing back to the safety of the surrounding wall, as I storm down the stoop. I continue across the gravel, crossing under a stone archway. The roof of the temple skims the horizon. My steps are steady along the dirt path leading down the hill. With a simple swing of my sword, I can go back to blocking the priest and planning my next move.

  Goran sprints to keep up. “I feel I should add that she wasn’t a willing sacrifice.”

  “Why?” I crack my thumbs inside my fists and try to stuff the shock back down. “Do you think it will save her? Or do you think I should punish Kisk for the insult?”

  “Punish Kisk?” he repeats in a dull voice. “I’m not sure it’s possible without annihilating the entire race.”

  I grunt. If left alone, Kiskens could repopulate within a few generations. The refugees would need to return, though. But, considering the level of destruction, they won’t. There’s nothing to save and no immediate opportunities to rebuild. The island will belong to whoever wins the war. Rejecting the girl’s sacrifice, letting her continue to the Netherworld, is punishment enough.

  Goran darts ahead of me and pushes the temple doors inward. Light spills into the main chamber and, unlike most sacrifices that call out for help, this one is screaming her lungs out. No words, just a piercing shriek, high enough to make me wince.

  “Was she doing this when you were here earlier?” I ask, rubbing my ears.

  “It might be because I was here,” he half-shouts over the noise. “When I was collecting the reports, she started going off about being drugged and murdered. I left without engaging her but perhaps that wasn’t the best course of action.”

  I cringe. The sacrificial rite must begin at dawn and take no longer than an hour—she’s been in the pit for awhile now. I lead the way into the main chamber and wave a hand in the girl’s direction. “Pull her out. Let’s get this over with.”

  Goran gives me a long glare before kneeling by the circular pit. When the girl falls quiet, my ears continue to ring. Loud, gasping breaths spill from the opening. The tips of her fingers dance along the edge. They’re tinged red, the nails ripped and torn. How long has she been clawing at the smooth walls?

  “It’s okay.” Goran smiles. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll help you out.”

  Her fingers snap back into the darkness.

  “Give me your hand,” Goran says in an encouraging voice.

  Silence wrings through the temple, almost as deafening as the screams. Ciro’s prayers buzz in the back of my mind, and the threads of my patience begin to fray. I step forward to yank her up myself when she speaks.

  “Are you one of the zealots?” she asks.

  Zealots. Such an ugly term for the true followers. I inhale and Goran glances over his shoulder with a cocked eyebrow.

  “I’m not,” he says. He tugs the sleeve of his sweater up to get a better grip. “Let’s get you out of there.”

  I glare at the domed ceiling, at the long piece of sculpted iron hanging down from its center like a javelin, and wait. Goran doesn’t always have to be so nice to them. Simply bring the girl up so I can remove her head, and she’ll be in a better place. But I keep my mouth shut. It makes Goran complain less and makes the girl easier to deal with. With him, they come out of the pit without a fight and are gone without suspecting a thing. Mostly. Before, when I pulled them out myself, they knew as soon as they saw the sword, and their screams put this girl’s to shame.

  A tan hand wraps around Goran’s pasty wrist. He braces himself against the altar opposite the pit. With one swift tug, a young, dark-haired girl lands face first on the temple floor. She leaps up, the white sacrificial gown floating around her bare feet, and bolts for the open door.

  “Wait.” Goran catches her hand. This temple is a mirror of the one in Kisk. She must not realize the ritual is finished, that she’s here
instead of her own island. “This isn’t what you think.”

  “Wh—”

  “Enough.” I straighten my shoulders and they both freeze.

  In one fluid motion, I pull the blade from its scabbard and swing toward her bare neck. She sees it coming, but I’m moving too fast for her to get out of the way. Then, at the last moment, my gaze flickers to her face, to the chestnut eyes, wide with terror. My arm stills, the edge of the sword resting against her flesh. A line of blood glides down her smooth skin, seeping into her neckline.

  “Cassia?”

  She stares at me, unblinking. Then a flash of recognition lights her expression and she gasps. “Theo?”

  The grungy girl from last night has been transformed into a pious sacrifice. The white dress is snug, highlighting her curves, unlike her bulky jacket. She’s thinner than I thought. Smaller. Her hair, once a snarled mess, is neatly brushed back into a tight bun, and she glows with the after effects of a good scrub. The scent of jasmine wafts from her body and my jaw tightens. Each moment we stare at each other, the air grows thicker with unspoken accusations.

  “You weren’t with the believers,” I grind out. “Did you find the Gods overnight?”

  She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Barely draws breath. She watches me with a wild expression as she begins to tremble. My grip tightens on the bronze hilt. I’ve never known any of them before. Never been curious. I shouldn’t be now. I need to finish this before it’s too late, and continue this war on my own terms. There’s no room for distraction, no matter who the pretty face belongs to. She’s nothing to me. I’ve barely thought of her since returning.

  And yet, I have thought of her.

  Briefly.

  Twice. Once before falling asleep and again when I woke up, before the prayers took over.

  My sword clatters to the floor, a chorus of clangs echoing off the walls. I run a hand through my hair and turn away. Heat rises in my tightening chest. I have to do it. I can’t let her stay.

  I can.

  I shouldn’t.

  A sharp, metallic scrape rings against stone behind me. “No,” Goran shouts.