by Adam Burch
The lash comes again.
“You can do it, Leontes!”
The Warden grabs the whip from Greelo in frustration and swings. His pudgy arms can’t generate even half the force that Greelo could. The crowd erupts in laughter. The Warden’s face grows pink under his waxed mustache. He swings the whip, but slips on a patch of ice and falls on his ample ass. The crowd hollers with delight.
“Execute him!” The Warden screams. Greelo hesitates. “Do it now!” The Warden squeals.
Greelo draws a knife from his belt. The crowd is stunned. He raises the knife above his head. I won’t give him the satisfaction of cowering, even with my last breath.
“Stop!”
Everyone turns. Carrick hobbles from the outskirts of the crowd. The gangs make a pathway for the stocky man to stride through their ranks. He limps, but he’s walking, his ankle no longer broken.
“You can’t kill him,” says Carrick. “He saved me.”
Even I’m stunned by this bold turn of events.
“I’d be dead but for Edmon Leontes. You have to let him go!”
“Insolent worm! I command here, not you!” The Warden screeches.
“Let him go!” someone calls out. The cry is echoed. “He got his lashes. Let him go!”
“Let him go! Let him go! Let him go!” The chant rises from the inmates who only moments before were calling for my head. The Warden’s eyes shift nervously. The guards around the perimeter finger their humbatons, but the inmates outnumber their jailers. Here is the reason that gangs are divided, I realize—a way to keep inmates separate, so they will never rise up against their masters. I’ve just given them something in common. Kill me publicly and I’m a martyr.
“All right! In light of this advent, young Leontes can be let go,” he says reluctantly. “Cut him down,” he murmurs to Greelo.
I save him the trouble. I pull with both blood-soaked arms. The poles break loose from their moorings and crash to the ground. I’m like the mythical Samus, toppling the dome of Hyperius with his great strength. The crowd cheers, and I hobble from the auction block.
“That’s it, Baldy Patch!” they shout.
I stride toward Faria’s hut, feigning strength, secretly ready to fall.
I don’t feel the needle. Faria’s trick with his hands ensures I’m numb as he sews my lacerations.
“You’ll heal.” I smell the rubbing alcohol as he dabs the wounds. “If you had a Pantheon medic, you would receive skin grafts. Unfortunately, here at the edge of darkness, there will be scarring.”
“Scars you see hurt the least,” I mutter.
“Pithy,” he returns sardonically.
“What now?” I gently put on my shirt.
“In the morning, you’ll begin as my apprentice.”
“Apprentice?” My eyes go wide.
“Medical assistant,” he corrects.
He’s not ready to give up all his secrets. Yet.
“The Warden will want to keep you out of sight after today, but you’re right. I am old. The prison will need someone to carry on the healing work.” He smiles. “Your father banished you here so you couldn’t cause any more unrest to his plans, but one day, he’ll remember the value a son has. Stay alive, and when he calls upon you, do not forget I helped you.”
“How will you help me?” I ask.
“First, by teaching you to become invisible.”
My brow furrows with question.
“From the day you arrived, I knew you were trouble. You stand out. You make enemies. If you want to survive, you must change. It’s the great tree that is uprooted and breaks in the storm. The lowly reed bends and survives. Do not be noticed again.”
“I never wanted the attention,” I say.
“You didn’t eschew it, either. You’ve met force with equal force.”
“Should I have done otherwise?” I ask.
“That’s not for me to decide.” He shrugs. “I only teach what I know. If you want to learn, you’ll follow.”
I nod.
“Good,” he says. “Return to camp. Make no sound. Talk to no one. Acknowledge if you’re spoken to, but no more. You’re not one of them anymore. You’re a shadow. Forever outside. Do you understand?”
I return to the Picker camp and take a place outside the circle. Some notice and nod. One gestures for me to sit beside him. It’s more friendly acknowledgment than I’ve ever received, but I’ve made a bargain. It’s funny, I wouldn’t have thought I’d care, but the desire to have camaraderie is overwhelming after so long without. It feels as if the old man’s blind eyes are upon me, though, so I stay apart.
I’m not one of them and never will be. I’m Faria’s apprentice now. I’m invisible.
CHAPTER 19
CABALETTA
The morning alarm rouses the men, and I rise. As the camp prepares, the gangs organize themselves into lines to enter the mines, and I walk through the shantytown to the igloo. I enter to find Faria seated in meditation. I take up a seat across from him, waiting for him to speak.
My impatience gets the better of me after nearly an hour of anticipation. “Well?” I ask, exasperated. His eyes snap open, and he glares. “When do we start training?”
He closes his eyes. “I have said. You do as I do. Now I am meditating.”
“That’s all we’re going to do?” I can’t believe this.
“Perhaps you’d prefer to return to the mines?” he asks.
“No,” I mutter.
“Then, yes, this is all we do.”
“What are we even meditating on?” I sigh. He told me mastering the flow of meridians through the body and the Dim Mak could take years to learn. I haven’t any time to lose. At the very least, I thought I’d learn to set a bone or suture a wound.
“Meditate to master the self,” he says. “You can master nothing until that’s mastered. So that’s the only end worth anything.”
I exhale in frustration, but I close my eyes. “Faria?” I ask.
“Master,” he corrects.
“Master,” I say, gritting my teeth. “Have you mastered the self?”
“If I had,” he answers, “there would be no need to meditate.”
We sit in silence for the whole day. Hour upon hour, thoughts swirl like a maelstrom. My father, my brother, Nadia, my mother, my longing, my anguish, over and over. Some moments pass where I drift and think of nothing. Before long, the evening alarm has sounded.
“Return tomorrow,” Faria says.
I leave, shaking my head. Working in the mines was almost better than sitting doing nothing. Almost. I stop at the Ration Bar before heading to the Picker camp to sleep. I take my place outside the circle.
A healer’s skill is contingent upon having people in need of healing. If there are no injured or sick, then what else is there to do than sit? I don’t know how I’ll survive the boredom. Toiling in a dark cave doing menial labor was not what I wanted for my life. Sitting and doing nothing isn’t, either. Regardless, I settle into the routine. Wake up, go to Faria’s hut, sit in silence by the fire. I take food and return to camp to sleep. Wake up. Do it again. The monotony of my inane thoughts is maddening. Mastery does not come. I drop my head into my hands.
“This is it?” I bemoan. “I’m supposed to master my thoughts, but all I think on is death and the hatred I have for this godforsaken planet, the injustice. If I’m supposed to calm the storm, I can’t.”
“Then don’t quiet the storm,” Faria responds, eyes still closed.
“But isn’t the point to become emotionless?” I ask.
Faria chuckles. “Why are you here, Edmon?”
“Because my father murdered my love, my family. He forced me to marry another, and I refused to play his games.”
Faria nods. “Is that fair?”
“No,” I say darkly.
“What do you wish to do about it?”
“Make him suffer,” I growl.
“You expect to shut that feeling away?” he asks. “No, I ask that yo
u feel it more. There’s no other way to stand over your enemy and cut out his heart. Accept your hatred and you won’t be rash or stupid, you’ll be cold. Don’t quiet the maelstrom. Become the storm.”
A month passes. A rockslide hits Dungeon Seven, killing several Pickers and Runners and injuring many more. Faria’s igloo becomes a ward for the wounded. The space fills quickly, so patients are laid outside, littering the icy ground with blood. Quiet as the last few weeks have been, the days become equally busy now.
We don’t sleep. It’s a whirlwind of learning as I watch Faria attend patients. The shaman smashes bone back into place and sews shut torn skin. Then it’s my turn. Faria applies the Dim Mak with such skill most patients don’t even realize what’s happening. He’s careful to make sure that even I don’t fully see the technique, lest I try to replicate it. Once anesthetized, he instructs me to reset the bones and suture the wounds while he moves to the next patient.
The Warden sees fit to bring additional equipment, including urchin needles and synth-plasma packs, so that we can infuse the injured. Carrick’s miraculous recovery seems to have changed his perception of Faria’s capabilities. Now even extreme measures are taken to ensure workers do not die. The Wendigo has not received a shipment of prisoners from the outside in months. No one says, but I suspect that the people of Meridian are too frightened to dissent. It won’t last, of course. Rebellion has a way of festering beneath the surface and then exploding like an infected boil. For now, the dearth of new inmates spurs The Warden to keep his current workforce healthy.
The week grates on, and numbers in the “infirmary” dwindle. Faria blindfolds me. I’m made to feel injuries with my fingers. He talks me through grazing injuries with touch, feeling the ebb and flow of the body’s meridians. I learn to sense inner vibrations, places where blood and energy are.
“Gently,” he whispers. I apply pressure to a man’s nasal bones, a Hauler who took a nasty bash from a falling rock. Snap! The bones click into place like the pieces of a puzzle.
“Ah!” The man exhales.
“You’ll have a bump on your nose, but you’ll be able to breathe correctly,” says Faria.
“Bump’s nothing. Thanks.” The man pulls himself to his feet.
“Looks like we’re done for the day,” I say, noting for the first time in weeks that his dwelling is empty.
“Yes.” Faria sighs. “I’d like to rest. Go home, Edmon.”
For once, he does not look ancient and intimidating, just tired and old. Someday, he will be gone. The realization, to my surprise, makes me sad. I take my leave and walk through narrow avenues of hovels and campfires. I think on Faria’s words. Go home. I chuckle to myself. This will never be home. I must survive and somehow return.
At the same time, I fear I’ll never leave. My mother and Nadia and Gorham and The Maestro and my unborn child will have perished for nothing. The Isle of Bone seems so long ago.
I find myself at the Ration Bar. I stand stoop-shouldered and skulking to make myself look physically unimpressive, quiet, and invisible like Faria has directed. I am given packets of food paste without incident. I take my tray to a table.
“Hey, Baldy Patch,” Bruul Vaarkson catcalls. “Where do you think you’re going?”
It was only a matter of time until it happened, I suppose. I turn to face the foreman, trying to control my rage and fear. I’m invisible, I remember.
“You don’t think you can pass the Haulers’ table and not pay tribute, do you?” he asks. Toshi, who sits next to the big man, snickers along with the rest. Jinam Shank glances in my direction, then returns to his meal of paste. I’ll get no help from him.
“Come here, Baldy Patch,” Vaarkson commands.
Half of me is ready to leap across the table and end this now. Kill or be killed. But I need to wait until the time is right, so I split the difference. I remain where I stand and calmly ask, “What do you want, Bruul?”
“What sass! I think the little scrapper doesn’t remember how I once had his pretty little ass bent over and begging for mercy.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” My voice is clipped.
“Good,” he says, smirking. “Then come here and see what new presents I have for you.”
“If you need medical assistance, you can take it to Faria the Red or The Warden if you prefer.” I turn to leave. My way is barred by the man whose nose I fixed an hour before. A Hauler, of course.
“What I need is to make you an offer, Baldy Patch,” growls Bruul.
“I’ve had your offers before, Bruul. No, thank you,” I say acidly.
“A man of your skills can be of use. Tenshin there”—he gestures to the man with the repaired nose—“tells me that you fixed him real good. Work for the Haulers. Work for our camp and in return receive my protection and special . . . privileges.”
I stifle a laugh. I remember Faria’s words about attracting attention and incurring the wrath of enemies. Wait until the time is right. “Generous, but I decline.” Again, I turn to leave, and my way is barred.
“You don’t seem to understand, Baldy Patch. I’m not asking.”
Rage boils inside me. I don’t take my eyes off Tenshin.
“Neither my foreman nor The Warden would appreciate if I worked solely for the Haulers,” I say coldly.
“They don’t need to know,” Vaarkson responds.
Enough talking. Fury takes me. “Drown in fathoms!”
Vaarkson’s eyes go wide. Before Tenshin can move, my fist slams the center of his face. His nose splatters against my knuckles. He goes down twitching, and I smile at his blood. I own that; it’s mine. I revel in the violence.
The next Hauler puts a hand my shoulder. I whirl with the food tray, smacking the edge against his temple. This man hurt his ribs and sprained his knee during the rockslide, so my next blow is to his ribs. The man gasps. I kick his knee. The joint melts, and the man crumples.
Vaarkson comes for me. I fling the tray like a discus. It smacks him in the mouth, sending him flipping end over end. He belly flops on the dining table, sending ration paste flying.
I turn my gaze to Toshi, who has been cowering in his seat. You’re next, tillyfish, I say with my enraged eyes. He cringes.
The crowd at the other tables goes ballistic, screaming. Food and fists fly everywhere around me. My altercation has instigated a full-on riot. My heart sinks. I was supposed to stay invisible.
A klaxon blares. Black armored guards run in from the tunnels below. It’s full pandemonium as humbatons fly from holsters, and sonic pulses pump into the prisoners, sending them writhing to the floor in nausea and pain.
I squirm my way through the rioters and slip quietly back to the Picker camp. I find a corner and huddle there. An hour or so later, the riot is finally quelled. I lean my head back and close my eyes, praying the cause of the disturbance will not be found. Too much to hope for, I know.
The Warden, flanked by guards, waits by Faria’s hut the next morning. Faria, Jinam Shank, and Bruul Vaarkson, sporting a fat lip and a few missing teeth stand alongside him. My face remains calm—I’m not sorry for what I’ve done.
“Edmon Leontes,” says The Warden as he strokes his mustache. “You’re coming with us.”
“Where are you going to put me? Prison?” I ask wryly.
The Warden’s face flushes, and Faria shakes his head. I’ve disappointed him by aggravating the situation. “What’s the charge?” I ask more seriously.
“We don’t need a reason. You’re ours, worm,” Greelo squawks. He and Sookah step forward to bind my wrists.
Faria shakes his head again at me. Do not try anything, he silently indicates.
“Inciting riot,” The Warden says gleefully.
“I was defending myself!” I protest.
“We have it on good authority that you attacked three members of the Hauler Gang, including the foreman. Violence is against all regulations of my prison, Leontes.”
“Violence like whipping a man in front of a crowd?”
I ask.
Faria purses his lips.
Just shut up, Edmon.
“One man against three, and I’m to be punished?” I ask more calmly.
Public punishment didn’t go well for The Warden. Inflicting public pain again would only strengthen me and weaken his own position.
“The Citadel.” The Warden smiles. “One year.”
A year in darkness! “I’ve done nothing but help keep your workforce strong, help you bring in the haul,” I say.
“We can do without your help, Leontes. You’re no noble son here.” He stalks forward until his face is centimeters from my own. “You’re nothing.”
“Let me be judged by my peers. Call witnesses. I didn’t start the riot.”
The Warden hoots. “This isn’t the College of Electors. You aren’t a Combat champion. You haven’t earned judicial reprieve! If I say you go in the tower”—his laughter ends abruptly and his voice drops low and menacing—“you go.”
Faria is utterly impotent to prevent this. I’m on my own, as I have always been.
“Besides, we have asked witnesses,” The Warden says. “Those who did not implicate you were easily convinced of the error of their ways.”
I want to spit into The Warden’s smug, fat face and watch my spittle run down his chin. Yet even if he’s been told by my father to keep me alive, even if he fears making me a symbol of rebellion, such an action might not stay his hand. Pride can only be diminished so much in a man before he breaks.
Death or the Citadel. I cling to my rage, shield it like a candle against the winds of the Nightside. I look The Warden in the eye. My words come slowly and deliberately. “I understand, Warden. I’m sorry for any infraction. I accept my punishment willingly.” I bow in abject humbleness, just as I did to Old Wusong as a child.
The Warden’s beady eyes swivel in his porcine face. “Take him away,” he says.
My back stings from the caning they gave before they hauled me to the surface and into the dark tower. We walk down its corridors by torchlight. I hear the moans of prisoners from the surrounding cells as the light of the guards passes their grates. It’s the only spark of illumination in the place, this black monolith that protrudes from the barren landscape of ice. Here they send the worst of the worst to live in solitary confinement. Here they’ve sent me.
