Fragile Chaos

by Amber R. Duell

  Later, sitting in the same chair Theo left me in, I glare over the top of the mythology book to the pair of dice on the table. The ghost of him lingers across from me.

  I force my attention back to the glossy pages. The book is full of stories about creation, heroes, and fantastical beasts. The two-headed buffalo is in here in all his glory, but apparently Drea killed it after she realized what a mistake it was. Even after coming here, most of this seems laughable. Human men that sprouted wings. Stardust sprinkled in the eyes of seers at conception. It all makes for a very dramatic story.

  But I’m looking for a specific kind of tale. One I won’t be able to find in Theo’s library.

  My mind catches on Oskar and the Pearl in the Table of Contents, and I flip to the page listed. On the left is a picture of a man in a white loin cloth pushing a pearl easily three times his size across the ocean floor. Coral slices his feet, tendrils of red rising up behind him to form a cloud of blood. Dark shadows lurk in the distance—some big, some small, all ominous—but the man’s features are focused. Streams of bubbles escape from his nose. He looks straight ahead, ignoring everything around him.

  Across from the picture, blue scrolls border a page covered in elegant script.

  Once, the Sulyiv Peninsula was beloved by the Goddess of the Sea. The Sulyiv were open and honest, relishing in the gifts Brisa bestowed upon them. They sacrificed to the Goddess once a month in gratitude for the calm nature of their ports. But over the years, the Sulyiv grew proud and began to think themselves masters of the sea. Their sacrifices became fewer until, finally, they came only during the Quinquennial Honorings.

  Brisa allowed this for fifty years before revoking her blessing. On the first night of the fifty-first year, a hurricane ravaged their coasts. Only the head of the royal fleet was spared to deliver a message. If the Sulyiv didn’t want another storm to come the next night, their emperor would need to sail across the raging waves and sacrifice himself to the Goddess of the Sea.

  But the emperor was the proudest of them all. He wouldn’t forfeit his life under such an ultimatum, for he thought the hurricanes would disperse as all hurricanes do, and things would return to normal.

  On the seventh day, in the midst of the seventh hurricane, the emperor’s only son, Oskar, donned his father’s robes and rowed the royal barge across raging waters. Brisa kept the ship afloat while Oskar made tributes to her siblings. Once he cut his arm, she sucked him down to the bottom of the sea. Inside Brisa’s palace of glass, Oskar removed his father’s robes and fell hopelessly in love with the beautiful goddess before him.

  Brisa, however, was angered by his deception and refused to end her assault on the peninsula. For another three nights, the country was held in her grip. This angered Ebris, for what was the emperor’s son if not the future emperor? He declared Brisa must keep her word and, to atone, push the pearl from the Mother Oyster for as many nights as she broke the covenant.

  Oskar, wretched over his dishonesty and enamored with his bride, offered to receive her punishment instead. As Brisa’s husband, surely he was her equal. Surely it would be the same. Ebris agreed, and for three days Oskar pushed the pearl from the Mother Oyster across the seabed, braving the horrors of the deep.

  When he was finished, Brisa looked upon her weary husband and kissed his brow, healing his wounds.

  I blink at the last sentence. That can’t possibly be the end, but a new tale about a bird and a boulder begins on the next page. How much of this is true? What happened to Oskar? Did he stay with Brisa or go to the Netherworld? Is he still with her? The most important part is missing.

  But, of course, I’m assuming Oskar ever really existed.

  With a frustrated sigh, I slam the book shut and start back to my room to scour the account of the Ostran War again. At least I know that’s made only of fact. At least it will have an actual ending.

  A white suspension bridge cuts across the limestone gorge leading to Volkana’s capital. Streetlights flicker to life on the other side as night begins to take hold of the city of Ubrar. Below, the deep crevice looks as if it could reach straight into the Netherworld itself. Goran shivers beside me, his breath a cloud lost in the fog rolling down the mountain range behind us.

  “I hate this city.” I adjust the zipper on my parka. “It’s nothing but trouble.”

  “I could’ve done this alone. It’s probably nothing.” Goran shoves his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. A stretchy black hat hides his heritage along with his blond hair, but there’s nothing to be done about his pallor. Sending an Asgyan, hidden or not, into the middle of Volkana alone is ignorant at best. I’m the one who should have done this alone, but Goran knows exactly where we need to go.

  “A spy goes missing and you think it’s nothing?” I ask, giving him a sidelong glance.

  “It’s only been four days.”

  It’s unusual to go more than two days without word in times of peace. Never in times of war. If Ebris wasn’t being so stubborn, I would have a better idea what’s going on, but without reading the reports, anything could have happened. It’s crucial I don’t have blind spots when I dive back into the trenches. If a spy is missing, I need to find him. Besides, it’s my responsibility to make sure nothing happens to them. Sacrifices can die here, and there’s nothing I can do to bring them back.

  “Let’s make this fast,” I say.

  The grated metal bridge clangs beneath our boots. I change my breathing to exhale with every other step and cloak both of us with my shield. We can’t hide under it forever. We’ll have to talk to Volks at some point if we want information, but at least we can make it into the city without being harassed.

  A few bills are tucked in a secret slit in the cuff of my jacket for bribes, but, approaching the edge of Ubrar, I regret not bringing more. Cash is the first language here, Volk the second. Thieves will be severely disappointed if they look in our pockets. I clutch my ring hand close despite not being seen.

  Inside the city, Goran leads the way down a narrow sidewalk. Past women in scanty clothing and men with needles in their arms. Two police officers stand brazenly on the corner, drinking from flasks with a tall man in a heavy fur jacket. I try not to look, to avoid the corrupted souls and the problems that follow in their wake. They flock to the outskirts like rats, but the city center isn’t free of vermin. They’re better at disguising themselves in high-end brothels and opium dens. But a rat with a pretty bow still eats from the garbage. It’s surprising Volkana has enough able-minded men left to fight the war.

  Finally, Goran stops in front of a four-story stucco building with a clay roof. A crack webs up the corner. “He lives here,” he says.

  I run a finger over the names beside a silver intercom. “What’s his name again?” I ask.

  “Timun.” Goran leans forward to read the tags and jabs one of the grimy white buttons. A faint buzz rings through the speaker and we wait. And wait. He presses it a second time. A third. A fourth.

  “Stop,” I say. “He’s not here.”

  I drop the shields hiding us from view and slide my hand down the whole row of buttons. The speaker crackles as the buzzing echoes back at us from every apartment then falls silent again. I back up and glare at the side of the building. Scaling the wall wouldn’t be hard—the verandas are perfectly spaced—but I’d rather not chance it with the amount of rust holding the railings together.

  A window slams open to my left and an old woman with curlers leans out. “You,” she snarls through yellow teeth. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Excu—”

  “Hello, ma’am,” Goran says in perfect Volk. “We’re looking for our friend, Timun, in apartment eight.”

  “You have some nerve waking me up to look for that flea bag,” she snaps.

  I pull the first bill from my sleeve and dangle it in front of her. “Where is he?”

  “You don’t have to bribe everyone,” Goran whispers. “It draws attention.”

  “What do you think a
crotchety old witch screaming at us on the street does?” I whisper back.

  The woman snags the money with a claw-like hand and leans back inside. Her lips pucker. “Drafted.” She slams the window down and whips tattered curtains over the glass.

  “Drafted?” I turn to Goran. “You’re supposed to keep them out of the system.”

  His face is ghostly pale under the streetlight. “I…I don’t know. Maybe…”

  My men fought their battles before they sacrificed their lives; they didn’t do it to march back into war. Sending them back as spies is bad enough when they came to me expecting eternal paradise. I won’t let them become cannon fodder.

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe they’re so desperate for men that they’re pulling them off the street.” Goran’s voice wavers. “Or it could be a lie. That woman might not know where Timun is.”

  “No.” The Volks are wild and ruthless but their military is ruled with an iron fist. They wouldn’t drag boys off street corners and toss a gun at them. The old woman is telling the truth. She has no reason to lie. I crack my neck as we turn away from the apartment building. “I know what happened.” This is the next move in the game. A piece moved across the board. “Ebris is going to pay for this.”

  Goran draws a breath. “Theodric, don’t do anything rash. We don’t know—”

  I storm past him. I do know. Ebris isn’t coming to me to fix my mess because if I stay away, he can maneuver things any way he likes. I’m such an idiot not to have seen it before now. “What’s the fastest way to The Black Pony from here?”

  “Turn left,” Goran says with resignation.

  The air is thick with the scent of alcohol and sweet perfume as we slip down the alley toward the Volk army’s favorite bar. Situated between the garrison and a brothel, it’s easy to have a night out on the town and still make it back to the barracks before dawn.

  Boisterous laughter ripples over me when we reach the street. Goran slips out of the shadows beside me, hunching into his coat. Two dozen green and brown uniforms blend into the bar front. A few men and women stand at the end of picnic tables covered in white plastic but the majority of them are sitting. Some of them are too drunk to even be doing that and lean onto the table for support. Broken glass and plastic cups litter the cobblestone. One of the bigger men checks me with his shoulder to get to the alley where he urinates on the corner of The Black Pony.

  I hate this city.

  Goran tugs his hat down and shifts uncomfortably beside me. “What are we doing here?”

  “What we came to do,” I say. A waitress rounds the table in front of us in a low-cut shirt, apparently oblivious to the chill. She plunks a foaming pint down in front of the youngest solider in the bunch. I take a deep breath and grab the two remaining on the tray at her hip before easing onto the edge of a bench.

  “Oye.” The waitress kicks at my boot. “Those are bought and paid for.”

  I tuck a bill in her half-apron and wave her off. Only she doesn’t leave. She lets the empty tray dangle from her hand, her red lips parting to read me the riot act, but Goran steps in with apologies and a charismatic smile. I look down the rows of men as he charms her into compliance. I’m not sure what Timun looks like—there are too many sacrifices to memorize all their faces—but I’m confident he would recognize me.

  “That’s why I said I would take care of this on my own,” Goran whispers as he sits down across from me.

  I tap a finger against the pint. “I don’t have time to be tactful.”

  “Then you better have time for an argument,” he says.

  I don’t. I won’t lower myself to argue with a mortal over a couple drinks. “Do you see him?” I ask.

  Goran sips the beer, discreetly trailing over faces. “No.”

  Soldiers burst out of the bar and saunter toward the building next door where the candied perfume originates. The door remains open behind them until the waitress yanks it shut behind her. It was long enough to see the place is filled to the brim with uniformed Volks.

  “So many,” I say quietly. “Too many.”

  Goran lifts a hand to motion to the burly man beside him with thick sideburns and pretends to scratch through his hat to hide it. “Yes.”

  This isn’t a few men flying out to meet a battalion. This is a battalion. The only time this many soldiers get to break curfew is right before they go into battle. “They’ll attack before the end of the week,” I say.

  “Theodric,” Goran warns.

  “We have to go.” It isn’t safe to talk here, and the conversation can’t wait.

  This is a new low for Ebris. I could learn to get over him talking the zealots into sacrificing Cassia. If it were any other girl it wouldn’t have mattered, so I take responsibility. But this? The world is changing. My men are limited. Sacred. The most important link I have to the world. I shouldn’t have waited so long to check in on things. Now it’s vital we scour the stack of reports and learn where the Volks are heading so I can cut them off.

  When I push up, my shoulder knocks someone behind me. Glass shatters. Beer splashes my pant leg and a hush falls over the group. A man two tables down stands up with a shout, and motion seems to slow. I know what’s coming. Goran eases off the bench with a pointed look. I incline my head in agreement.

  Run.

  We’re outsiders. Strangers. Suspicious. More importantly, we’re outnumbered. As much as I’d love to take a little frustration out on them, I have to get Goran out of here. He’s no stronger than they are, and I can’t be as strong as I am. I already have one missing sacrifice—I can’t lose another.

  I lunge toward the alley but a blow to the cheek knocks me off course. I stagger sideways. A metallic taste hits the tip of my tongue. I round on the man who hit me. He shakes his hand out as he steps forward. I bend my knee and slam the sole of my boot into his stomach. He wheezes, gripping the table, and the rest of the soldiers leap up in support. They scramble over the benches, knocking tables aside in their rush to get to us first.

  Damn.

  I bash my elbow backward into someone’s throat. Goran reaches the alley, funneling the attackers into single file. I yank the nearest man by the collar and toss him into one of his comrades. A fist flies at me from the left. I swing back, pulling my punch so I don’t kill him, and he somersaults over a table.

  I dodge more hits, taking a few in the process. I’m almost to Goran when the cry goes up. “Spies! Asgyan spies!”

  A flash of blond hair falls in the alley. “Son of a—” I slam the man in front of me into a wall and toss his unconscious body over my shoulder. Two soldiers ahead of me wrestle Goran to the ground. I reach into the tangle of limbs and drag one of them off by the ankle. Soldiers clamber behind us, tripping over their fallen. I launch myself over Goran and snag his upper arm. The soldier leaning over him falls to the ground when I yank him free. We duck around the back of the bar. I slam the shields into place and we run.

  Shouts continue to rise up as they search for us, calling for a lockdown of the city. A horn echoes through the night, pulsating through my bones. I push myself harder. Faster. I’m not interested in being stuck on this side of the bridge, shielded or not.

  A flare goes up, painting the streets a brilliant red. Men and women peek out of their homes while the filth on the streets retreat into the shadows. We weave through the confusion, dodging cars, then the bridge rattles beneath our heavy footfalls. It isn’t until we’ve reached the temple ruins in the mountains that we stop.

  “This never would’ve happened before.” I punch one of the few walls that survived the earthquake years ago. “Never. Those men would’ve been on their knees the second they raised a finger against us.”

  “Theodric.” Goran rasps for breath.

  “I’m going to kill Ebris for this,” I growl.

  “We don’t know this is his doing.”

  “Of course we do,” I shout. My throat burns from it. “This entire war would be finished by now if he hadn’t
stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. Again. It’s never going to end. My siblings will never trust me, Goran.”

  “I know,” he says in a strained voice.

  He’s never agreed before. It’s always been don’t lose hope and eventually. I let my head fall back. “And now I’m stuck with her on top of everything.”

  “This isn’t Cassia’s fault.”

  “I know that,” I snap. “Why do you think she’s still alive?” There’s a long silence, the only sound is my own breath grating in my ears. I take in my adviser with his bloody nose and cut eyebrow, and my throat tightens. This is what Ebris wants. To tear me down to nothing, starting with those closest to me. “Do you think she was coached to tell me she didn’t care?”

  Goran’s eyes pop. “Now you’re being paranoid.”

  “Am I?” It makes sense. I take the slightest interest in a girl and the next day she’s in my temple. Maybe she was planted at the bonfire that night. Her anger at the other Kiskens is likely real given the circumstances, but to want the entire island to fade away? Not many mortals are that cruel. And there’s the matter of her brother. She has to blame me for that.

  “Cassia isn’t working with Ebris.” Goran’s face twitches. “She hasn’t tried to change your mind.”

  She’s not trying, but every day I find myself wondering if I should gift Kisk a small victory for her. She’s invaded my very being, and I can’t get her out. Not even now, after losing Timun and being assaulted. If there was ever an inappropriate time to be worried about a girl, it’s this moment.

  “She can’t know the truth about her brother,” I say. If she told me the truth yesterday during Fate, if she told me who her brother was, I would have told her everything. It wasn’t my intention when I asked her to play, but I know the words would have come. She had a chance to be honest but she withheld. Now I’m going to keep the information tightly under my belt until the war is over. Longer, if necessary. “I don’t want to give her a reason to switch sides,” I admit.