by T. C. Edge
Honourable lives, I think, shaking my head. Born for this? Pulling wagons all day. Dragging around lofty prima donnas. Even being forced to ferry their own people? Where, exactly, is the honour in that?
I don't respond, or speak again. I see no point in entering this debate. I just take a weary breath, and though I hate to do it, climb up into the carriage and onto the wooden bench within. As we're drawn through the city, the doors shut and blocking out the world beyond, I think of the poor men pulling us along, and wonder how many others there are like them here.
And then, as always, I think of Lilly. Beautiful Lilly, the model Devotee, the sort who'd fit in well with the girls sitting alongside me now. I wonder what tasks they perform, what duties they're required to fill. I wonder how many sects of the Worthy there truly are, just how brutal life here is for some.
I wonder a great many things as I sit there, feeling numb. My sister, drawn into a life she always wanted, though probably didn't understand. My best friend, his fate unknown, who I may never see again.
And me. What of me?
Execution.
Sacrifice.
Purification.
In less than two hours time, the city will expect to see me die. Somehow, I think the fates are calling for something else.
I turn to Marlow, sitting ahead of me. "How am I to be executed?" I ask him.
He dips his head, as though in apology, trying -failing - to show some sympathy.
"By fire, child," he says. "You are to be purified by the flame."
I nod, the smallest of smiles rising on my lips.
Fire, I think.
No...I won't be dying this day.
19
The gradient of the city appears to rise as the carriage rolls along.
Though I can't see anything from the dim interior, I get the sense of upward motion, the transport winding down narrow paths, gradually heading up a hill.
From my initial, and brief, inspection of the city the previous day, it appeared that it revolved around a large hill at its centre, a raised portion of land around which all the distinct sections and regions of the city were built. By my reckoning, we're venturing up that hill, part way at least, heading for the city's core.
We continue to wind back and forward for a while, seeming to be taking a back alley route. I wonder if the Worthy aren't allowed to travel down the larger, more populous streets, or whether this is simply how the city is configured; a network of winding streets, topped with smooth cobblestones and flanked by statues and towering stone buildings.
It seems unlikely to me, given the sneak peek I got from the main entrance square the previous day. From there, there appeared to be a large number of grand streets and pathways heading into the city from various angles, the city split into regions with distinct and fascinating architecture. It appears more likely that the structure of the city, not being particularly ancient, has been forged in a more user-friendly way.
Yes, it holds the appearance of something grand and archaic, a mixture of ancient castles and forts and temples from a bygone age, but that doesn't mean it's been designed to be all twisted and maze-like too. According to grandma, old cities were often that way because they were continually expanding and growing out from their original core, and commonly rebuilding after periods of war and destruction. I'm not completely sure of how long ago Olympus was built, but it certainly hasn't seen hundreds, let alone thousands, of years of evolution.
No, this place is as false as those who reside here. An homage to ancient cultures and myths, but carrying none of their authenticity. A superficial place with superficial people.
Just one big lie.
I stay quiet as we journey on, not wanting to make eye contact with any of my travelling companions. The vastness of the city becomes clear as we go, moving deeper into the metropolis, gradually heading up and towards its centre. It makes sense to me that the Prime himself would reside there, living in that grand temple I saw the previous morning. Just another nod to Mount Olympus, the home of the mythical Greek gods.
How conceited, how staggeringly narcissistic, does one have to be to forge such a home, to build it, and their great city, in such a way? I wonder as the carriage rolls on, whether the Prime truly thinks himself a god. Does he really believe himself to be divine? Is this just a hoax, a great deceit, or the workings of a madman. One who, divine or not, clearly possesses great power.
I muse on that as the city passes by blindly beyond the carriage, my sight blocked but my ears able to pick up the movement of people, the murmuring of voices, the general excitement that fills the air. Is this sort of day common here, I wonder, or a regular occurrence? How often do they gather up poor souls to be sacrificed, put on this sort of macabre spectacle?
Such things are primitive, pagan rituals. Grandma has spoken of them before, acts of cruelty that were once prevalent across various cultures, but began to be stamped out as society grew more compassionate, as human rights and national and global law began to stamp out such practices.
It seems bizarre to me that the world has regressed so far. That the global collapse, precipitated by the development of genetically enhanced people, led us into this strange, primal world. Yet far from here, as the rumours go, other lands aren't quite the same. Lands where these so-called gods, whom we worship across the Fringe, are rightly known as the enhanced people they were originally intended to be.
Not gods. Just men. Men with gifts and strange abilities, yes, but men just the same.
I wonder often what it would be like to visit those places. To see how other populations have adapted since the collapse. Yet such a thing has never been more than fanciful. Here, in these northern lands, we've become isolated and alone. And no one, unless permitted to pass by the soldiers of Olympus, is able to cross the border and journey south.
The carriage begins to slow, drawing me from my thoughts as the rattling of the wagon, bobbling along the cobblestones, is replaced by the gentle sound of wheels rolling along a smooth stone surface. The stamping of the men, those pulling us along, begins to echo, suggesting we've entered into a short tunnel or interior space. A few moments later, as we move further off the street, the carriage comes to a halt.
I watch as one of the girls opens the door and steps out, the rest following, Marlow the same. With my hands still shackled, I'm helped down onto the floor, and find myself in a hall of some kind, set off from the street, natural light blooming at the end of the passage we just came down.
There, I see a second carriage being pulled along. As with ours, there are several men dragging the thing, their faces cast in discomfort, sweat beading on their brows despite the cool of the early morning. They look rather more weary than our own taxi-men, the reason becoming quickly apparent as Krun steps out, his enormous frame clearly weighing far more than Marlow, the four girls, and myself combined.
"OK now, follow me," comes High Worthy Marlow's soft voice, turning off towards another passage leading deeper into the complex.
We begin moving off, the girls stepping lightly, their gait identical, as if they've been trained to all walk just the same. They hover in pairs behind Marlow, two on either of his flanks as I move along by his side. It's quite disconcerting to have these silent, apparently mute women trailing along like shadows, their eyes beautiful but blank, their expressions held in constant smiles, pretty but entirely devoid of any real emotion.
Further back, Krun ambles along, maintaining his distance. I don't turn to look at him, but can estimate his position from us simply by the stamping of his gigantic feet, the heavy sound of breathing as huge swigs of air enter and exit his lungs.
After moving down another passage from the parking hall, we come to a second, smaller courtyard giving access to buildings on all sides. The architecture here is basic, simple stone facades and interiors with little decoration or colour, mostly in shades of white and grey to, I imagine, signify their purpose as buildings utilised, and potentially lived in, by the Worthy.
From what I've seen so far, it appears as though the Children of the Prime dress in more colourful attire. Muted colours appear to be reserved for those of lower standing, as well as the Children of the Prime here who work here in a more official capacity.
We enter into one of the buildings, the interior carrying a chill. The thickness of the stone walls suggests to me that it will rarely get too warm here, even on the hottest of days. I'm drawn into a room up a set of stairs, brightly lit with artificial lamps that seem to run on some form of electricity.
Across the Fringe - or at least in my experience of it - electricity is rare. The world used to run on it, apparently, but not where I'm from. Here, it seems, there's a balance. The facade is of a mostly archaic setting, but evidently science and technology hasn't been completely ignored. Perhaps, I wonder idly, other sections of the city are different? Maybe there are entire regions devoted to more modern forms of architecture, more modern ways of life before the collapse occurred?
I'm hurried into the room, my eyes taking it in. There's a window to one side, though I don't get a good look through it. Just the hint of the world beyond, the city stretching away into the distance, a large open space apparently set just outside. A sweep of air enters through the window, the sort of whistling breeze that suggests a high altitude. And, along with it, I hear a general din of noise, that of a people gathering, amassing outside.
I'm sat down in a chair, simple, wooden, my shackles taken off my wrists. In the doorway, I notice Krun stooping, watching with those dark, narrow eyes. The girls begin to move behind me. I hear them shuffling about in preparation of something. Marlow steps ahead, smiling in that punchable way of his.
"Now, Amber, all you have to do is sit tight," he says. "The girls are going to get you all cleaned up and ready for the show. Just relax and let them do their work."
He speaks with no compassion, no caring for what I'm set to go through. It's as though I'm being pampered for some grand ball, not prepared for a Prime-damn sacrifice!
Marlow then departs the room, mercifully taking Krun with him and leaving me alone with the girls.
Feeling numb, my thoughts still rattling and anxiety beginning to rise, I let them do their work, hardly caring at all as they stand me up and begin to peel off my clothes, stripping me down into my underwear to wash me. They notice the slightly singed and scorched interior of my pants and shirt, my once white underwear now burned in places.
One looks at me with a question but doesn't speak. The others merely continue on, fully aware that across the Fringe, wearing such clothes, tattered and worn down, isn't completely uncommon depending on your profession or the area, and conditions, in which you live.
I'm washed thoroughly, my skin cleaned and exfoliated. When they're done, I feel about as fresh as I ever have, my tanned skin almost glowing, my hair washed and dried, rolling down my neck in vibrant, golden waves.
The girls then begin rubbing oils into my skin, adding to the glowing, shiny effect. They smell pleasant, yet I suspect that isn't their purpose. No, these oils are flammable, I assume. There to ensure that the flames take quickly to my flesh, and that every inch of me is burned to ash.
Yeah. Good luck with that...
Next, a dull white robe is wrapped around my body, fastened at my waist with a simple brown belt of rope. My feet are unencumbered, no shoes or sandals or even socks provided. It seems that this sacrificial dress is intended to be as basic as possible, enough to hide my modesty and not offend anyone in the crowd, but not so much as to waste good material.
As the girls continue their work, the din outside continues to grow. The sound serves only to heighten my nerves and anxiety, the idea of all those faces watching as I'm drawn out there for execution, regarding me with those hateful, judging, superior eyes.
And with those nerves, blooming within my body as my heart begins to pace, come the doubts. The crippling fear that, maybe, I've got this all wrong.
Can I be sure that my body won't burn? I begin to wonder anxiously. What if these oils are special ointments, intended to make sure anyone, Fire-Blood or otherwise, perishes by the flames? What if I do survive my purification, only to be killed by some other means?
What if...what if Jude is there with me? What if I have to watch him die while the flames try to take me, protected by the power in my blood as I hear him scream, see that face I so adore contort in terrible pain?
I'm battered by a sudden barrage of questions, my calm abandoning me as I stand there being dressed for the slaughter. It's as though the calm optimism inside me has vanished, as though that strange certainty that everything would be OK has suddenly gone scuttling off like those rats through the wall.
Breathing heavily, I find myself stepping away from the girls, my eyes set on the window ahead. The sudden movement seems to startle them a little, giving me some time to escape their clutches and rush towards the opening in the wall. I feel the fresh air sweep into my face as I reach it, planting my hands on the windowsill, staring out at the expanse below.
My breath leaves me at the sight. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people flood the huge square beneath me, dressed in all manner of colours and fantastical garments. They seem so varied and different, as if they originate from all sorts of cultures and ages, the Children of the Prime gathering in a swarming mass, collecting around a great stage in the centre. I gaze upon that stage, built of solid stone, my eyes drawing in the image of a number of sacrificial pyres set on top of it.
My eyes quickly scan them, counting. I see four, dispersed equally across the stage, stacks of wood set for burning, a large stake down the middle of each, to which we're to be strung.
We, I think, my breathing heavy. Who is we?
An answer comes quick as the girls hurry towards me, gripping at my arms, trying to draw me away. Of the seven of us ferried in that mobile cell to this city, only four were known to have spoken words of heresy...
Myself, Raymond, and his two male companions.
We are the four set to die this day.
That thought, oddly, soothes me a little, though comes with a dash of guilt. Guilt at the feeling of relief that fills me at the thought, the hope, that Jude won't be joining me on the stage today, even though Raymond and his companions will. That, maybe, our captors have realised that both Jude and the wives of the men from Westhollow have done little wrong here, and don't deserve to be purified, murdered, sacrificed before the people of this city.
I feel the girls tug harder at my arms, their gentle coercions growing more forceful as they attempt to pull me from the sight. I begin to sense a little more in them as I stare out upon the grand square, some sympathy, perhaps, at what awaits me. Some vicarious anxiety as I stare down at those pyres, imagining the fire, the fear, the excruciating agony that I'm set to endure.
I hold there for a little longer, however, struggling against the girls, my eyes drifting left of the great, white stone square. There, continuing up the towering hill at a steadily increasing gradient, I see a huge set of marble steps, disappearing off and out of view into the low hanging clouds and mist.
I draw a sharp breath, knowing where those stairs must end...
The Temple of the Prime, up there in the heavens.
Finally, the girls manage to pull me back from the window, the commotion enough to have Marlow and Krun hurrying back into the room.
"What's happening here?" Marlow asks, perusing the scene with a heavy frown, his cool visage cracking open.
"Nothing, Master," responds one of the girls hurriedly, her voice sweet, sounding as if it's rarely used. "We're just finishing up..."
I see the ripple of anger cross Marlow's face, the light tone of panic in the girl's voice as she speaks. Will they be beaten for this? I wonder. For this tiny mishap, this minor deviation from the day's schedule and plan? Anger boils in me at the thought. I know that tone of subservience and fear. They're frightened to put even a single foot out of line...
I make a snap decision, and don't s
truggle any longer. I turn to Marlow and greet his suddenly cold gaze directly, refusing to be the reason for these girls to suffer his, or anyone else's, wrath.
"It's my fault," I say. "Just needed a gulp of fresh air." I manage to raise a smile, turning from my fears, portraying the defiant girl they think me to be. "Beautiful view, by the way. Must be an awesome panorama from up those steps..."
Marlow lifts his nose, features rippling as if trying to relax but struggling to do so. I sense a deep vein of anger in the man, a suppressed rage. Something he's forced to keep down, to hide away, in public at least.
But these girls...does he beat them? Is that part of his purpose?
"I...imagine the same," the High Worthy eventually says. "Yet, I will never know. Few ever venture up there, and only the most favoured of the Prime's children are permitted passage up the Sacred Stair."
"Well, sucks to be you, Marlow," I say, not trying at all to hide my sarcasm.
"Quite," returns the man. "Though I'd contend that you're in a slightly worse position than I am, child."
"You know, something we finally agree on," I say casually. "Now are we done here or what? I'm just dying to be purified."
"You will be," grunts Krun from the doorframe. Quite why he chooses to stoop there all the time, when he could stand up straight inside the room, baffles me.
"Oh, very clever," I say, slow clapping and smiling at him like he's a child. "You think that up all on your own?"
His eyes flash angrily, though I also note the slight blush that rushes into his cheeks. I chuckle as I look at the very human reaction. If the journey across the Sacred Plains, witnessing the strange weather and gigantic statues, seeing the city itself bloom to life beyond the foggy veil...if that made me wonder whether we were truly dealing with something divine, then Krun completely debunks that theory.
