by Sarah Chorn
Pain. Of course she was in pain. She was an owned creature, at the whim and will of the Premier. What had Eyad done to her? Was he physically harming her, or mentally torturing her? Was one better than the other? Was it her punishment for helping Neryan escape?
His freedom for her life. Had the trade been worth it, for either of them? The rage that filled him was almost surreal with its strength. He stood rooted in place, his feet stuck to the floor like they’d been glued there, while he stared into nothing as the world gained a knife-like sharpness. His hands began shaking, the water in him surging up, threatening to break the dam that held it back, yearning to drown them all. It was so unbelievably strong, and each day growing a little stronger, a little harder to hold back. He needed balance.
He needed fire.
He needed Seraphina.
“Neryan,” Vadden’s hand rested firmly on his arm. “Come back to us. Get control of yourself. A lot is riding on this moment.”
Vadden kept talking, his voice low and hypnotic, chiseling through Neryan’s fury.
“I’m fine,” he hissed through clenched teeth, pulling his arm from Vadden’s grip. “I just need some air.”
He stumbled out of the library, down the back hallway of the inn, past the kitchen and its sweltering fires, and outside, slamming into a wall of humid, soupy air. His lungs gulped it in like he was choking and had just been saved. He stalked over to a dark corner by the bath house, painted silver by the moonlight, past two veiled wives tugging their exhausted children from a cart. Their husbands were haggling for a room while the women led the little ones into the inn. He kept moving, paying them little more than a passing glance.
When he was sure he was alone, he let his anger slip, punching his fist into the wall of the bath house, ripping the skin of his knuckles so they bled. He welcomed the clarifying pain that washed over him like a baptismal fire. He swore under his breath and punched again. Each split of his knuckles dragged him a little more toward his humanity, beating his water back just enough for him to wrap his will around it.
“Neryan, I’m sorry,” Vadden’s voice sliced into his anger.
Neryan started, so lost in the moment, he hadn’t heard Vadden approach. He brought himself back into his own skin, calmed his raging thoughts, and ran a hand through his hair, tugging on it.
“I need her, Vadden.” Neryan poured everything he had into those four words. He felt Vadden staring at him, and wondered what the man was seeing, what story was being told by the lines of his face. “It’s more than just worry. Of course I’m worried. I’m always worried. I’m sick with it. Worry is a disease, and I’m infected by it. No, this is something deeper. Something…” he tried to find the right word. “Elemental. This isn’t about worry or desire. It’s an actual necessity like air or food.”
Vadden grabbed his hand and squeezed. The men stared into the night for a few silent minutes. “I know,” he finally said, the words soft as a whisper, full of understanding and patience.
“I can’t just keep sitting here, waiting,” Neryan replied, rubbing the space over his heart, over that part of him where all of his water was surging, pooling, yearning to be released so it could drench and drown. Furious. His element was positively, blissfully furious and so very eager.
“No,” Vadden agreed. “No, you can’t. Give it a few days, though.”
Neryan tensed. “I know we have been apart for years now, but something is changing in my water, Vadden, and I am afraid if I don’t reach her, I will lose myself.” Putting words to his urgency made it all so real, and maybe that’s what he needed.
“Wait until we hear from Mouse, okay? Just that long. Eyad will not kill her. He’d have done it already if that was his plan, and we owe Seraphina some consideration and forethought. The Premier isn’t a man you can just pull one over on. It takes time and cunning. If Mouse comes back with news that could help us…” Vadden’s voice trailed off, letting Neryan fill in the gaps. More information could only help.
Silence stretched between them, pulled tight and then snapped.
“A few days,” Neryan said. “Then I’m going in to get her, with or without you. I’ve waited long enough.”
Vadden nodded and clapped him on the shoulder.
“I can agree to that.” He said, and then turned and left Neryan alone with the darkness.
Mouse
Mousumi crouched in the shadows of the alleyway and watched. She’d spent the past two days just looking. It was impossible not to. She hated Lord’s Reach more than she hated cats, and that was saying something. But here she was, doing what she could to help Neryan—her dad in every way that mattered, a man she loved despite all his faults.
For five years they’d been hiding out with Vadden; flitting around the countryside with him, stealing here, liberating there. As soon as she’d seen Neryan she’d known he was broken. Just like her, but in different ways. They were two shattered souls knocking around in a world of broken glass. They needed each other. They crashed into each other furiously, a huge clash and an angry burst of energy, and stayed that way—all fighting and bickering for the first year, him trying to lose her, her hanging on until he finally gave up and accepted that she was part of his life.
Now, if he’d asked, she’d walk barefoot on the sun for him; and she was pretty sure he’d do the same. So, she’d agreed to sneak into the dragon’s den, all for the sake of his sister. Though she prided herself on her ability to get in and out of just about anywhere, Premier Eyad had the palace locked up tighter than a virgin’s ass—so tight, she couldn’t even get through the tunnels under the castle. Something was going on up there, and he’d closed off every avenue so not even the smallest crack remained for a tiny mouse to squeeze through.
Neryan had spent the past few years circling around Lord’s Reach, trying to figure out a way to get to his sister, but none had arisen. There was no way he could get into the city without being spotted. He was too high profile—the escaped slave of the Premier, recognizable to anyone who manned the gates or walls. It had taken years, watching him become more and more desperate, before she finally caved and decided to go into the city and see what was going on.
After discovering that the palace was impenetrable, she’d planned to go back to Amiti’s Inn and tell Neryan and Vadden what she’d seen. She’d been halfway through the city, almost to Freedman’s Quarter, when she saw guards clearing the area that rubbed up against the south wall. They were brutally forcing the refugee families and freed slaves to move either further into Lord’s Reach, into little ghettos they’d built, or out into the countryside. Those who didn’t go willingly, didn’t survive.
She’d watched the purge with a sick fascination, dread coiling in her gut like snakes. She couldn’t stop it, so why try? Instead, she’d clung to the darkness of alleys and lanes, ducked into abandoned warehouses and slipped behind precarious piles of old pallets and trash. All the while watching as the guards let loose, braining people, slitting throats, pushing, pulling, robbing, and raping, until the poor were subdued or dead. Until the streets were stained red with the color of their intent. It was disgusting and frightening, but she felt some odd satisfaction in it as well. It sort of filled her up inside, almost like she’d eaten a meal that was too big and hadn’t stopped in time, all those lost souls finding a new home in her newly-distended belly.
After some exploring, she found the ghettos. They hadn’t been here when she was a child, running the streets and evading the secret police. They’d set up two, one at each end of town—little walled cities within a city, where refugees and the homeless went to live or die, as they pleased. Heavily guarded, Mouse couldn’t find a way in, but she could imagine what life was like in there. Not enough food. Not enough room to hold everyone. Too many bodies all pressing in close. Fertile ground for disease.
She’d stayed hidden, skulking around the darkest, dirtiest parts of the city, listening to the shouts and panic all around her, and all she felt was… satisfied. Disgusted, b
ut satiated. Full. Odd, but she had other things on her mind.
She wanted to leave, but getting through the gates on a night like this wasn’t a good idea. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her middle, which was now full of… something… and found an empty alleyway to hide in. She spent a sleepless night with one hand on her knife and her eyes pinned on the alley’s entrance.
When the promise of morning spread across the sky, bright pink chasing away the inky darkness, she rose to survey the damage. The city woke slowly, people slipping timidly into the streets and marketplaces. Even the calls of the merchants were muted. Fear permeated the air, filling it with the cut-flower smell of dying vegetation. She paid a man five kopeks for a warm meat pie, and settled herself on a barrel beside his stall to eat it. Then she listened, absorbing the whispers swirling around her.
“They reckon the Freedman’s Quarter wasn’t supposed to be cleared last night, and the Premier is so upset he’s coming out to tour it personally,” said the man who’d sold her the pie to the woman running the neighboring stall. “He never comes into town.”
“Serves them right if you ask me, refugees showing up here, crowding the place. They’ve got the entire countryside to run around in. Why do they need to come here? And who cares about freed slaves? They’re slaves for a reason, is what I say. We’ve got our hands full as it is. He should give those soldiers raises, far as I’m concerned,” the woman replied. “Long live the Premier.”
“Shut up,” the man hissed. “Long live the Premier,” he mimicked. “You best stop now. That’s monarchy bullshit. It’ll see you hung—”
Mouse shifted her attention away from the bickering pair, shoved the last of her pie in her mouth, and got to her feet.
She turned one corner, and then another, dodging people here and there until she ran into a gathering crowd. A woman and her son, an angry guard with her chin caught in his grip, turned her cheek to show the mark of an earth talent branded there.
“You’ve got talent,” he said in a rough voice. “Why are you here?”
“Comrade, there was no food in my village. My son was starving. I came here to—”
“Do you have a pass to leave your land? Did you get permission from your local commissar?”
The answer was written in the droop of her shoulders, the sorrow in her eyes. This was a woman looking fate in the eyes, and not liking what she saw.
“All talents are to be sent to the fields. Earth talents, like yourself, are especially needed. Would you take your skill away from the state? Force other children to starve so yours might live?” The guard flicked a finger over his shoulder, and two others appeared. “By refusing to labor in the fields, you are robbing the state. Take her to the village of Atsagat. She will work there, under local party supervision. She is a suspected subversive, she will be treated like one. One wrong step, comrade, and you will end up in a forced labor camp.”
The other two guards nodded, grabbed her shoulders, and started leading her away, leaving her son behind. He started wailing. “I’m not from… My son!” she shrieked, fighting them as she was forcefully separated from her boy. “Let me keep my boy! He has nobody but me! My son! My son!”
“He is unmarked. Atsagat doesn’t need one more mouth to feed. He will stay here to be tested and sent where the state sees fit,” the guard said.
“Iago!” She shouted. “Iago, my son!”
It was too much. Mouse couldn’t stomach seeing more. The cries of that boy followed her down another alleyway, and then another. She forcefully turned her mind back to Premier Eyad.
She’d spent her life in Lord’s Reach, surviving on the streets despite the constant sweeps for street-rats like her. She was too young to remember the days before the Premier overthrew the monarchy, but she remembered clearly that he never came into the city itself. Sure, he traveled—going up north to observe the labor camps. Sometimes he went to the Red Desert, but he never wandered into the Reach itself. As far as she could tell, he avoided it like the plague. Maybe it was all the old nobility stuck within its walls, unable to leave without permission; or the dirty, the diseased and the starving that littered the fringes. He probably didn’t want to think about how hungry people were, didn’t want to face all the ways his system wasn’t working. But now he was entering the city and the whole thing smelled wrong.
The wind blew, tugging at her curls, and she inhaled deep. That coiled-snake feeling in her gut intensified. She turned her head to the east and inhaled again, deeper. The wind carried something to her, something that smelled amazing. It came from a far-off place, and it wasn’t food. At least, not any kind she recognized. It was more like the smell of need. Her need. Whatever was out there, in the east, she suddenly needed it more than she needed her next breath. This desire was more profound than anything she’d experienced, nearly overwhelming her.
She bent double, gasping, some repressed drive clawing at her, urging her to drop everything and just run, run toward the rising sun, toward the source of whatever was drawing her, to the place where the wind rose up, taunting her.
Instinct took over and her feet started to move before her mind kicked in.
East was away from Neryan, away from the city, and she had a job to do. She couldn’t just run away because something smelled good. Slowly, slowly, she settled back into her own skin, but there was a hunger in her now. It was awake, sitting in the back of her mind, alert, aware, and ready to rise up. How long could she ignore it? Would she be strong enough when she felt it again? She nearly hadn’t been this time. It made her feel threatened. Like prey.
She was exhausted, felt like she’d run a mile, and that meat pie had done exactly nothing to satisfy her hunger. Her stomach let out a mournful groan, and she chewed on her thumbnail as she moved through the city, trying to decide what path the Premier would take if the rumor was true. Trying to keep her mind off the thing the wind carried in from the east.
Speaking of wind, she realized she hadn’t checked the black null mark she’d painted on her cheek, her faux talent brand. She had to make sure it was perfect before she showed up anywhere an official might be.
She ducked into an alleyway, pulled a looking glass from her pocket, and checked her face. It was fine—unchanged since the previous day. She was one of a few unmarked talents. Everyone must be counted; those who weren’t were essentially thieving from the state, getting everything while earning nothing. She’d never wanted to go the direction of those who were found to have talent. She was too old for slave schools, and the labor camps were flooded with refugees and the desperate. It would just be easier for officials to kill her and dispose of her body in one of the mass graves outside of the city. She had to be careful. Hiding her wind talent and keeping a null mark painted on her cheek was the best she could do.
Wind tugged on her hair again, and she swatted at it with her hand as though it were an errant child.
She reasoned the Premier would most likely travel near the western wall. The avenue was broad, started off right outside the palace, taking him through the important parts of the city and near the poor quarters without actually going into them. He’d have cover from guards on the walls, and the soldiers who manned the gates, as well as protection from his own entourage.
It made sense. He’d probably want to be seen. He’d want this to be a grand gesture, and the western wall positioned him perfectly for maximum impact. It also made it easy to dash out of the Western Gate as soon as she saw him.
She moved in that direction, bought another meat pie that tasted amazing but had all the impact of a dream on her starving stomach, and found a hidden vantage point near the gate to crouch in. Already the Western Wall Road was thronged with people, the rumors having obviously spread. Half of them seemed nervous, the other half excited, all of them full of a sick anticipation she could almost taste. In fact, yeah, she could taste it. She could taste their fear, the cloyingly sweet, satisfying lick of it filling her up in a way those meat pies hadn’t been able to.
More fear. More desperation. More souls.
She needed it the same way she needed blood in her veins. That’s what she was craving, and it tasted better than anything she’d ever eaten, more filling than bread, heavier than a mountain inside of her. Who needed food when there was this intoxicating stew of emotions to savor? She inhaled, taking in that miasma of feelings as she did, noticing dimly that the people around her seemed to fade a little as she drew air in. The harder she inhaled, the more she savored, the fainter they appeared, and the fuller she felt. They were disappearing because she was devouring them, breathing them in, making them part of her.
It was delicious.
She didn’t think about it. Didn’t worry at what it meant or how she was doing it. She felt like she’d spent her life starving, and had suddenly arrived at a banquet.
She spent hours hunched up against that wall, savoring the souls around her until she was drunk with satisfaction, until the world swayed and blurred around the edges, until she was so full her belly poked out. She felt like she needed to throw up just to be able to move, not noticing, or caring, how washed out those around her grew with each breath. Insubstantial. Wasted. Ideas of people. Echoes of life. Too much chaos all around her for anyone to notice a few people missing, one girl left standing where a crowd had been.
And then, it happened.
The roar of the crowd started far away down the road, but it was so loud the earth shook with it. Soldiers ran toward them, standing in a line to keep the crowds back. Sun baked the world, and the press of bodies was cloying, sweat; skin sticking to her, and none of it her own.
The hum of voices grew louder as people speculated about what they’d see. They threw flowers into the street, coating the cobblestones with white and red petals. More people pushed toward her, filling the space left by those she devoured, dispelling what was left of them like mist without even noticing. It was as though Mouse had turned them into ghosts and wasn’t that fucking weird?
