by J. C. Staudt
“If I may once again have the floor,” said Cord Faleir, without waiting for Raith to give it to him. “There is a third option that hasn’t been discussed in this Council for quite some time. It is an option that may work in tandem with either of the other two. That is, the cycle of chosen births.”
Raith spoke up. “The culling of infants, you mean. It hasn’t been discussed because it isn’t an option.”
“That’s a rather harsh description, Councilor Entradi. I prefer to describe the process in a more fitting way. It’s a means of grooming Decylum’s population by way of long-term birth management. We hand-pick the most promising children to carry on our future.”
Daylan Albrecht was interested. “That sounds good to me. I’m all for trying out other options. How does it work?”
“Every newborn child is exposed to a blackhand’s power,” Raith said, interrupting Cord as the slender councilor was opening his mouth to speak. “Those who survive are shown to have the gift, and are thus deemed worthy of a place in Decylum. It means that in a generation or two, everyone in Decylum will be a blackhand. It’s killing in the name of ego and vanity.”
“What a grossly inaccurate portrayal,” Cord said. “You apparently don’t believe that our gift is the thing that makes us superior. Would we not do best to harness it—prosper from it?”
“What will more likely happen is that we’ll meld ourselves into a society that’s so inbred we become dependent on it.”
Cord narrowed his eyes. “That’s that fear of yours talking again, Raithur Entradi. You see only the potential for failure, when the entire aim of a system like the cycle of chosen births is genetic predominance. Your sympathetic nature is your weakness, councilor. Those who show your kind of weakness don’t survive long in this world.”
“And those who are incapable of showing mercy to the innocent seldom receive it.”
Cord feigned righteous indignation. “Oh, are we threatening each other now?”
“Your last remark led me to think so.”
“This is your Head Councilor, gentleman. I present to you a man too angry to argue with words alone. Too stubborn to rise above this pathetic pandering and work toward a future where we are the masters of the Aionach—the standard by which every other race measures itself.”
“Cord, you’re forgetting that well over half the people in Decylum aren’t blackhands,” Hastle broke in. “I have sons and daughters and grandchildren without the gift, and so do many of your fellow councilors.”
“My dear Councilor Beige. I’ve forgotten nothing. You simply misinterpret me. You speak as if I’m advocating a slaughter plan or a mass murder. I too have family unencumbered by the burden of power. I’m far from insinuating that we line up our children in the desert and execute them. This is a long-term solution—not a culling, as Councilor Entradi has so disparagingly described it. It would mean only that we were more provisional in our laws regarding childbirth, and that we put fail-safes in place to catch any… mistakes.”
You have a warped definition of the word ‘mistake’ if you can use it to classify a human being, thought Raith. “You’ve made your statement, Cord. Now, if there are any other councilors who haven’t spoken, but who’d like to offer their thoughts, let’s hear from you.”
The meeting drew on late into the night. Councilors voiced arguments on every side of the issue. A few even presented variations and alternative plans, but the council at large deemed none of these worthy of consideration. When the hour had grown so late that most were becoming delirious for want of sleep, the council voted.
CHAPTER 9
Feeding
The basilica was a monstrosity of gothic arches and stained glass, turrets looming over the cityscape behind high stone parapets. Its most compelling features, however, lay obscured within; a vast root system of chambers, hidden passageways, and staircases that anchored it to the below-world.
Bastille shouldn’t have known about the labyrinth. Her best guesswork had ascertained that only the Esteemed were given access to it, and since she’d only joined the Order two years past, she hadn’t earned the privilege to use the passages herself. The portals, each of which could be opened with a different trigger—the pull of a hidden lever, the shifting of a wall stone, the sweeping aside of a tapestry—were supposed to be a secret. But Bastille had noticed the signs of her superiors’ furtive movements on more than one occasion. It seemed that if the labyrinth was only meant to be used under dire circumstance, few of the high priests followed that rule.
Sister Bastille sat in her bedchamber, a room intended only for sleeping and prayer, and thus no larger than a spacious closet. A side table flanked her small wooden bed, and a storage trunk framed in gray steel sat at the foot. Her desk contained a tin candlestick, a washbasin and cloth, a few parchment scrolls, and some writing implements. Her prized possession was a box of ink pens, the old manufactured kind that didn’t need to be dipped and refilled after every few strokes. One small, high window, placed so close to the ceiling that she had to stand above the bed on her tiptoes to look out, admitted a shaft of pale pre-morning light.
Her goose down pillow and woolen blanket were still damp with the sweat of restless sleep as Bastille studied the words written on the brittle parchment. She’d woken several hours earlier than necessary, as was her habit. Idleness would not do. Much better to spend her time studying the scriptures before the day’s chores began. If there was deliverance to be found in this world, surely it could be found in a life of reverence to the Most High Infernal Mouth, through whom all was devoured except that which was favored.
The athenaeum’s shelves were crowded with an ever-expanding collection of scriptures, revelations the Brothers and Sisters of the Esteemed classes penned to fulfill their annual requirements. Beside the fresh and new were older, dusty tomes that stretched back in time to the Order’s founding—scrolls of vellum and skin and parchment, clasped within cases of aluminum and bone and carved wood. The gilded excess of the ancient basilica’s architecture was the only remaining sign of whatever church had resided there before the Order; all of the former occupant’s books, vestments, and ritual devices had been purged long ago.
To anyone outside the Order, these writings might have been perceived as nothing more than the ramblings of fanatics. To Sister Bastille, they overflowed with the wisdom and insight gained through a deeper understanding of being. She had resolved to dispatch two scrolls each week, but she was behind on her reading. Her eyes scanned the text of this particular scroll with increasing fervor as she delved into its rich epiphanies.
This, dear brothers, is the crippling pitfall of disbelief—that it confines one’s purpose within the prison of tangibility; that it limits one’s existence to the miniscule sphere in which the senses reside. There is a second sight that reaches beyond that of mortal mankind, which is closed to the mind of all who fail to believe. It is only by embracing death and its perpetuity that we may grasp the divine and reveal our true potential. We know that the Mouth devours that for which it hungers: the impure, the unholy, the weak, the lifebound, the unbelieving. What we do not always remember is that to remain undevoured is to embody death in its interminable immaculacy.
These scriptures had given Bastille plenty to meditate on this morning. This scroll was written by one Sister Nicolette, Greatly Esteemed, and was entitled Treatise of Relinquishments XVII. It was one of the most significant and profound texts Bastille had studied in a long year. Every few stanzas, she was finding herself overwhelmed by the gravity of the material. But she was having another one of her headaches, and that was making it hard to concentrate. I need some fresh air, she thought. Not that I’m likely to find it out of doors. Setting the scroll aside, she rubbed her eyes to subdue the ache behind them and promised herself she’d continue reading when the chores were done.
She stood and leaned over the washbasin, her reflection dark against the pale blue of morning. Her washbasin was the only place she ever saw her reflection an
ymore, but she counted it a blessing that she had so little time and so few opportunities to criticize herself. She had never been called beautiful; her face was svelte, but the shape of it held very little in the way of a chin, being wide at the cheekbones and diminishing into a lean, obtuse jawline. She had a look that was callous and icy, with a sallow complexion that made her feel older than she was. At one time her hair had been glossy and full-bodied, but it had grown stiff and brittle in the basilica’s mineral-heavy wellwater, and each year dozens of new gray strands seemed to sprout from her scalp like weeds. I’ve become a right old maid, haven’t I? she reflected.
She washed her face and smoothed her hair, donned her canvas slippers and dull gray prosaic robes, and left the chamber. She exited the dormitory hall in silence out of consideration for her Brothers and Sisters, then turned down the hallway toward the nave and passed the empty spinnery, where the looms would remain at rest for a few more precious hours.
As she approached the sanctuary, she could hear the tetrarchs already at morning rehearsal, their baritone chants saturating the corridor walls. One of the side doors was open, and she stopped to peer in. The ceiling arched above in shades of bright gold and deep blue, the whole of the room bedecked in the finest trimmings. Daylight intruded through stained-glass windows, setting the dust ablaze in multichrome.
The choir was no fewer than twenty strong, conducted by Brother Liero of the Most Highly Esteemed. Sweat glistened on their faces as they strained beneath their ceremonial robes, their voices joining to create something so elegant and pure it gave Bastille chills. Joy swelled in her chest, and she let the tetrarchs’ songs steep her in the pride of the Order’s tradition. The emotion started to overwhelm her, so she stifled it with a held breath and lifted her hood to cover her face. Warm tears tumbled down her cheeks when she closed her eyes.
The tetrarchs’ harmonies seemed to hold aloft every weight she bore. Soon the chant had become too much to bear, so she faded into the shadows, gliding down the remainder of the hallway like a gray phantom. She passed beneath the ornate archway and through the side door that led to the mudroom. Once inside, she extracted herself from her hood and snatched up a bucket in each hand before shouldering through the double doors and emerging into the outside world.
The courtyard was lined with flowing brick walkways that fell across multi-level patios, which managed some charm even without the aid of living plants. Dry fountains stood on the terraces. An abundance of colorful blooms had once surrounded them, but in place of rich soil there was only rock and dust. The outer yard beyond was stripped bare, save for the few sparse brown grasses that grew where there was shade.
Bastille’s prosaic robes became unbearable in the daylight, and within seconds she was soaked in sweat from toe to temple. In the blue plastic bucket were the entrails of the female corpse she had dissected that morning, along with those of the male she’d demonstrated to the acolytes the day prior. In the metal pail was a sack of feed and a bottle of wellwater.
The near wall of the courtyard bordered the conservatory, a massive garden contained in a single room that encompassed the basilica’s entire south wing. Enclosed by layers of glass designed to filter the daylight, it was a rich, sparkling maze of corn stalks, bean vines, fruit trees, potato beds, and dozens of other varieties of edible plants that once grew in the old world; a well-executed greenhouse if there had ever been one in all the Aionach. The conservatory was the Order’s greatest accomplishment, prosperous enough to feed them year-round, with plenty left to trade when the heathens of South Belmond came knocking at their gates. Artisan priests mended the conservatory through storms and the relentless brutality of the Mouth’s devouring light.
Bastille rounded the corner and set the blue bucket, containing the jumble of raw human remains, on the lowest of the stairs leading to the conservatory door. A Cypriest on the parapet above turned away from his watch over the city and stared at her. She thought it was Father Kassic, but she couldn’t be sure. She waved and gave him her best effort at a smile, though it felt cold and fraudulent, even to her. The Cypriest’s expression was no more inviting. He turned away again, his figure a silhouette in the oncoming dawn. She looked at the blue bucket. You’ll be fed well today, Father.
Metal pail in hand, she followed one of the winding paths to where a high retaining wall drenched a recessed section of courtyard in shade. She scattered a handful of feed over the close-set stones, then clucked her tongue to summon the denizens of this hallowed place.
They were timid at first, craning their necks from behind cracked pots and overturned barrels. By the time she was peppering the ground with a second handful, the scene was descending into mayhem. From the woodwork they sprang to the feast, pink flesh bobbing at their jowls. There were flashes of white and deep brown-red and medium oak-brown, attacking the mixture of dry grits and squirming grubs, neither of which fought back.
Laying down a few more handfuls, Sister Bastille crept to the opposite end of the little recessed area and found the nesting boxes, sheltered by miniature roofs and enveloped in perpetual shade. With her charges otherwise occupied, she began to fill the bottom of the pail with eggs. Her mouth watered to think of how fresh and savory they would taste after just a little time in the kitchens. Most of the eggs were brown, but here and there an egg with a greenish or bluish shell would make an appearance from one of the less common breeds.
“Kind Sister!” came a sudden cry from behind her.
Bastille whirled, the hens scattered and fluttering in the wake of the prosaic-clad acolyte dashing toward her. “What in Infernal’s name…” she said, as startled as the hens were. She checked the pail to make sure none of the eggs had cracked in her moment of surprise.
“Kind Sister, kind Sister.” Adeleine was panting, flushed pink in the face and dripping with sweat. The woman’s strawberry hair was plastered to her forehead, her eyes protuberant and fearful.
“Yes, what is it?” Bastille said, less a question than a demand.
“Sister Jeanette has fallen ill.”
“I shall come at once,” Bastille said.
The acolyte raised a hand. “No, no you mustn’t. You mustn’t go near her. There is something else that… that I am afraid to tell you.”
“You silly, impudent girl. If something’s happened, you must tell me what it is.”
“I… I came to you because… because I didn’t know where else to go. I’m afraid for her, and for myself, if it is true.”
“Out with it, now. I won’t stand for any more of this senseless babbling.”
“Very well,” Adeleine said with a shallow, trembling breath. “Sister Jeanette is… with child.”
“How far on is she?”
“Just at the start, if I’m guessing right. You saw her yesterday, before she left the room sick. We were all in our underclothes. There’s barely a bump on her. She must be a couple of months along at best.”
Bastille let a moment pass in silence as she puzzled through the implications of this. Beginning from the present date, she thought back to how long it had been since the Order accepted Sister Jeanette as an acolyte. The results only baffled her further. Jeanette had been inside the basilica compound for close to six months now.
“Who knows about this?” Bastille’s voice was an abrasive whisper.
“Just me, I think… as far as I know… and now, you,” Adeleine said. “And Sister Jeanette, of course,” she added with a smile.
Bastille gave her an exasperated look. There was one element of this situation that was pivotal, no matter the rest. She took the young woman’s hand in both of her own, making a concerted effort to soften her demeanor. She practiced the same smile she’d given the Cypriest earlier, warmer if she could manage it. Whenever she practiced smiling into the washbasin, it came off rather plastic and artificial-looking. She hoped it was enough now to soothe the young acolyte’s nerves. “Thank you for coming to me with this. For entrusting me with this very important and sensitive inform
ation.”
“Of course,” Sister Adeleine said. She looked frightened to have Bastille so close.
“There is no need to worry. You’ve done nothing wrong. You have not violated any of the Order’s statutes by becoming aware of this. Had you not brought this to my attention, you might have gotten yourself into trouble. Coming to me was the right thing. Now. I want you to make certain you speak with me, and only me, if you learn anything new. We must handle this with great care and concern. It would not be pertinent for this news to reach impressionable ears until we’ve decided what’s to be done about it.”
“Okay,” Adeleine said, trembling a little less. Her breathing calmed, and Bastille felt the pulse that had been pounding in her wrist begin to slow.
“There is one more thing I need you to tell me,” Bastille said, elevating her brow above a soft stare. It felt easier than smiling, this feigned look of understanding, and it came to her naturally when she pictured the same expression on her stepmother’s face.
