Tang saluted, looking relieved, and hurried away.
An hour later, Parad walked into the large hall that had served as meeting room for delegations in better times. Dozens of people filled it, from ragged refugees to rich merchants flaunting their wealth in the form of jewellery and fine clothing. Guards had been posted around the room, ready for any sign of trouble. Everyone rose as he walked towards his seat on a small stage with an ornate chair placed at its centre. He motioned them down as he took his seat. Tang stood behind his back, arms crossed, as he studied the people in front of him. The way he looked down at them made Parad feel like a monarch. It annoyed him, so he rose back to his feet and climbed down to walk amongst the crowd.
“Thank you all for coming here today.” He examined their faces. They were neither happy nor relieved; more like troubled and worried. He could not blame them—their city had already survived changing hands twice, while outside their walls lay nothing but death and chaos. Now they wondered whether their luck had finally run out.
“I realise the difficult position Marl’s treason put you in. Therefore, I’d like to start by saying that none of you shall suffer for one man’s mistake. In my authority as a General of Her Honour Justice Styx’s army and Commanding Officer of her expeditionary force, I extend her pardon over any crimes of collaboration committed during the city’s occupation.”
There was a brief moment of disbelief, followed by audible sighs of relief. The Harpy was not known for her compassion; no doubt many men and women in the room doubted they would ever see the light of day again. Still, this had been the carrot; they would not like the stick half as much.
“In her judgment, Themis has seen it fit to spare the city from any hardship. Our sisters, brothers, sons, and daughters outside its walls have not been so lucky, though. Many have suffered, and I know it hurts you as much as it hurts me to think of their pain. Therefore, I ask you all to open your houses to them. Share your food and water, shelter them under your roof.”
Their faces sagged.
“Also, help them rebuild their farms,” he continued. “These are people just like you, except they didn’t choose to be here. The Loyalists burned down their houses, poisoned their wells, slaughtered their cattle. They don’t want to live in a city, so help these poor souls leave as soon as possible.”
“We don’t have the means to do that!” a whiny voice complained. He traced it to an obese, bald man in a brightly-coloured, luscious silk garment. The man’s hands drew Parad’s attention; short and stubby and covered with rings sparkling with colourful precious stones. One of those stones alone would go a long way towards paying for the reconstruction.
He leaned towards Tang, who whispered in his ear: “That’s the leader of the Populars.”
Parad brow furrowed. “He’s popular?” he whispered back.
“It’s a local party. They support the rights of the poor and the workers.”
They exchanged a glance of mutual understanding before Parad turned his attention back to the man. “We dohave the means to do so. We have thousands of Loyalist prisoners. They’re the ones who destroyed—they’ll now help rebuild. You’ll lead them, guide them, guard them. The refugees themselves will be more than enough to guard them, and I’ll supply you with as many men as I can spare.” This last bit was crucial; he suspected that many refugees would rather kill every last Loyalist and Armband in their sleep instead. It was a fine balance, but the benefits outweighed the risks. He had neither men nor resources to spare and greed would soon split the city in two; refugees and schemers. He needed every man he could trust.
“We depend on your generosity to help with the provisions, though. We need ploughs and animals and building materials. You’ll be compensated, of course, but you have to realise that we’re fighting a war to protect you. Therefore, we expect every household to contribute in any way it can to the rebuilding. After all, we’re all patriots here.”
He deliberately made his voice a menacing growl during that last part, leaving it vague enough to keep them in line. He avoided any mention of taxation or confiscation, but their sagging faces revealed they knew that’s what he’d meant.
“The sooner this is done, the sooner Petria can return to normal,” he assured them. “Lieutenant Tang here will organise everything,” he added before they had a chance to say anything. “If you have any questions, please refer them to him.”
He climbed back onto the stage to sit on the chair, leaving Tang to answer their questions. He studied their faces, waiting for their reaction. Some seemed relieved, some troubled, and some as if they were making busy calculations in their heads. The ones who complain the loudest are the ones who can afford to lose the most. Soon enough, the nagging began. He silently noted the order in which the council members spoke. The leader of the Populars was among the loudest protestors, he noticed. He would make sure they unburdened him from some of his wealth. After observing the crowd for a while, his mind drifted to his upcoming meeting with Gella.
The Marshes
September 32, Lehmor
Lehmor absentmindedly moved his hand to scratch an intolerable itch in the crook of his missing arm, then scowled as his fingers passed through air. He hated that; it felt like ants crawling on the empty space where his limb should be. The Old Woman had said it was either that or his life. The Fallen’s poisonous bite had rotted his flesh by the time they arrived.
He thought of Moirah with a mixture of love and shame. Anyone else might have left him. How can I take care of her the way she deserves when I can’t lead my clan? The Wind Warriors only had two rules as to their leaders: they needed to carry the Old Woman’s blessing, and they needed to be able-bodied. She had stood by him, though, even if they could never lead their clans now as husband and wife.
He leaned back and stared at the sky. The autumn sun played through the leaves. The weather had turned cold, but they had a sunny day every now and then, even if the sun had teeth, as Moirah used to say. Despite the itching and the limping, he was content. The limping would finally go away, the Old Woman had promised him, and he had survived a Fallen attack. How many could say that? Most had not even seen a Fallen, let alone killed one. And they had killed not one, but three. Bards would write songs about them. He just hoped they would not call them Tales of Lehmor the Cripple.
He pursed his mouth, then heard his name and tilted his head. After a moment, Moirah called him again. He pulled himself to his feet, aided by a gnarly branch he picked up, and hurried towards her voice until they met.
She planted a light kiss on his lips and squeezed his hand. “How are you today?”
She frets after me like a mother. He turned his face away, half embarrassed by her affections and half loving them. “I’m good. Ready for the next Fallen!” He swung the branch.
She let out a soft chuckle. “Not today. They’d never dare approach us here.”
“How’s your admirer?” he teased her. They had both noticed Cyrus’s obvious infatuation with her.
“You have competition,” she teased him, then continued in a more serious tone. “But now we need to return. The Old Woman wants to see us.”
He followed her obediently until they reached the cave entrance. He remembered nothing of its inside, despite having spent several weeks there while the Old Woman tended his many wounds. The loss of memory surprised him, but tiredness overpowered him whenever he tried to remember, making him forget what he was trying to do.
The Old Woman and the young newcomer sat together, Cyrus hanging on her every word. She was telling him the tale of the first emissary in the newcomers’ language. Although Lehmor did not speak it, he understood her words; he knew this was part of the old magic. From the expression on the boy’s face, Lehmor realised he had never heard the tale before. That surprised him; it was one of the first tales told by First mothers to their offspring. His grandmother told it so well that one might think she had been there at the time. Of course, the Old Woman had been there; if the legend was to
be believed, she was the one to select and train the emissary. When Croix had murdered him, the First had asked her permission to kill all newcomers in revenge, but she had made it clear that no attacks would be tolerated. She had even forced them to withdraw from their valley, abandoning it to the Newcomers.
Lehmor and Moirah waited behind Cyrus with their heads bowed, hands clasped in front, until she finished the story. Then they approached, and the boy jumped to his feet, obviously still ill at ease around them, although he could not stop stealing admiring glances at Moirah. It was only fair, though: Lehmor was uneasy around the boy as well.
“Thank you for coming,” the Old Woman said. “Your wounds have healed, and as soon as he’s arrived, it will be time for you to go.”
Lehmor had no idea who she was referring to, but the idea of leaving the peace and tranquillity of the old monastery filled him with unexpected sadness.
“Where’re we gonna go?” he asked in a plaintive voice. She gave him a stern look, and he felt like a little boy being told off by his mother. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. Moirah giggled next to him, and he shot her a glare.
The Old Woman continued, ignoring the couple. “Once all four of you have gathered, you’ll return to your village. You’ll teach the newcomers everything you know, and they’ll teach you everything they do.”
Cyrus interrupted her this time. “But I don’t know anything.”
“You know more than you realise, young man. It’s now time to teach others, even as you learn from them. You’ll teach them your ways, and they’ll teach you theirs. Together, the four of you are destined to rule the world. Alone, you will fall. Always remember that, for the journey will be hard and long, and the Whispers will fight you every step of the way.”
“So shall it be,” the two First murmured bowing their heads, ignoring Cyrus’s look of surprise.
Petria
Parad
Parad stared at his plate with unseeing eyes, tapping a slow beat with his spoon. The food should have made his mouth salivate, but his insides were tied in a knot. Gella had not arrived yet, and he had no idea what to say when she did.
The door opened to let her in, and he patted down his uniform to straighten out invisible crease lines. He had expected her to wear her uniform. Instead, she had unearthed a thin dress that accentuated her trim figure. He gaped at her. Where the hell did she get those clothes? His eyes lingered a second too long on her breasts, then jolted up to her face and to her amused eyes.
Remembering his manners, he stood up and motioned her towards a chair across from his. She pulled it next to him, then sat down. He caught intoxicating whiffs of citrus and lavender. We’re in the middle of a war. How do women do this? He drew a deep breath as he leaned unconsciously towards her, closing his eyes to focus on her sensuous aroma.
She followed his movement and greeted him with a light kiss on the lips. He jerked back with surprise, then let himself reciprocate; gently at first, then with a ferocity he had no idea he possessed. She bit his lip, then got up and pushed his chair back with her leg. He tried to protest as she pulled his trousers down, but she ignored him and sat on him.
A million thoughts passed through Parad’s mind. His body trembled. His heightened senses took in her intoxicating scent of lavender, sweat and citrus engulfing him; the smell of the food getting cold on the table; the silky feel of her hair whipping his face; the tightness of her body wrapped around him, and the warm orange hue of the setting sunlight that made her skin glisten like copper. For a moment he considered the guard outside his door and wondered if he knew what was going on in the room, then decided he could not care less. He had forgotten how much he needed this, how much he enjoyed it. All thought left his mind, except for how much he loved the way she made him feel.
When it was over she did not move, leaning on him instead, nestling her face in his neck. He held her close, his heart swelling with tenderness and an overwhelming desire to protect her, almost like a daughter. The memory of his family hit him, carrying an enormous sense of shame and regret with it.
“I’m sorry—” he started to apologise as he pushed her gently off him.
“I’m not,” she interrupted him. She stared into his eyes, still sitting on him.
All worries left him and time stood still. For the first time in months, even Cyrus disappeared from his mind.
“Not sorry at all,” she said and planted a light kiss, then another and another, first on his lips, then all over his face.
Instead of replying, he kissed her back with a deep, hungry need. He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed as she giggled.
Hours later, dawn found them wrapped in each other’s arms, completely spent. He drifted into a content sleep until the sunlight bursting through the windows woke him up. He reached for her, only to find that he was alone in bed. The pang of pain in his heart surprised him. His eyes darted around, seeking her out.
He followed the sound of running water and stepped into the bathroom to find it filled with thick steam, through which he could barely make out her soft silhouette. “You in here?”
Her head popped out of the shower and her eyes lit up. “A shower,” she exclaimed, giggling like a little girl. “I had no idea you had one.” She splashed him with the water and laughed. Hot showers were a prized rarity in a world without engineers.
He stepped in to be with her.
“I had no idea you were such a sleepyhead,” she teased him.
Instead of replying, he silently admired her wet, firm body. The hot water felt good against his skin.
She leaned in to kiss him, then motioned towards the dining room. “I’m famished! You realise we didn’t eat anything last night, right?”
He nodded, then closed his eyes and let the hot water wash away the past. The weight he had been carrying all this time left him, all the rage within melting away like snow in the spring. Time paused for a moment, then raw emotions overpowered him and a sob escaped his lips. He turned away to hide from her, but she took him in her arms with unexpected tenderness, saying nothing; just holding him while his body convulsed. He had no idea how long he sobbed, lost in her embrace, the water washing away grit from body and soul. It had turned cold by the time all his hatred and pain had finally left him, but she never let him go for a moment.
He turned the water off. For the first time in ages, he felt at peace. They stepped out of the shower, still silent. She passed him a robe, put one on herself, then took him by the hand and guided him to the table. She sat next to him, took a bite off his plate and fed it to him. A deep sense of gratitude filled him as he took it. She had the next bite herself. She continued feeding them both like that. When they had cleaned up both plates, she sank into her chair and stared at him with swimming eyes.
“Was that for your son?” she asked in a soft voice.
He did not feel like talking, so he simply nodded. This did not stop her.
“Why didn’t you kill her?”
“Whom?”
“The Harpy, of course. Were you scared?”
He studied his hands. His fingers were wrinkled, like ten pink dried prunes. “People only have as much power over you as you let them. No, it’s because it’s hard to kill someone when half the Capital expects you to try. She never met with me without her Guardians.”
Gella laughed at this. “Still, it’s what I would have done.”
“I hated her for the longest time,” he admitted. “That’s what hit me in the shower. Even if I killed her, I’d still hate her. And my son would still be dead. The only difference is that my family would suffer even more. She would have won. She would have taken everything from me.”
Her eyes widened. “So you forgive her?”
He pondered the question. “No. She will still pay for what she’s done. But I don’t have to be the one to do it. What good would that do?”
“It would give you justice. That’s what I did.”
He shot up an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
/>
“I was married,” she said matter-of-factly.
He drew a sharp breath; he could bear being unfaithful, but not stealing another man’s wife.
She noticed it and hastened to explain. “It was a long time ago. He died in our first battle. I slew the man who did it, while my husband’s blood was still on his sword.”
He leaned towards her and took her hands in his. “Did you feel better?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe.”
“Tell me about him.”
“We were both very young, fresh out of the academy. Classmates, best friends. We thought we’d be together forever, nothing could separate us. We were invulnerable.”
His lips curled into a bitter smile. “I know the feeling.”
“Everyone does. You’re young, you’re in love … Nothing can go wrong.”
“So what happened?”
“We were ambushed. Most of my unit was so green, they had no idea what to do. One minute we’re patrolling, the next we’re attacked. We fought bravely, I guess, but that day I learned that stealth beats bravery.”
He squeezed her hands. “I’m sorry. Something like that changes you.”
She released her hands and jumped to her feet to pace the room. “It does. That’s when I decided to become a Lancer.”
“Not what I meant.”
She kneeled to face him. “I know what you meant,” she said, stroking his face. “People think it’s the pain or the anger that changes you, but they’re wrong. It’s realising you’re not immortal that changes you. It’s the fear.”
He traced her hand with his fingers, thinking back to his first battle. They had been the ones ambushing the enemy, scoring an easy victory. He still remembered his first kill, a trembling boy. Parad’s blade had entered the boy’s stomach, gutting him. He watched the light in his victim’s eyes fade, carried away by the blood gushing out. It was fear that had made him so brutal, and he had never forgotten his shame at that moment. He had felt sick for days afterwards, telling everybody it was a bug. It had changed him, and perhaps she was right; perhaps it had been realising his mortality that had transformed him. It’s funny how little it matters whether you’re the hunter or the prey. Death changes you just the same.
Pearseus Bundle: The Complete Pearseus Sci-fi/Fantasy Series Page 12
