by Sarah Chorn
“Kabir,” Amiti said. He was crying now. Every word he was saying was hollowing him out, crushing him with a force no amount of threats ever could.
“Survive, Amiti. Survive and live. I want to die knowing you are still in this world, still fighting.”
“Kabir, I can’t—” he couldn’t think. How was he supposed to think when his husband was saying his eternal goodbye? The cart started rolling forward, toward the gates. Time was running out. He couldn’t breathe. How could he live without Kabir beside him? How could he survive when his heart was being ripped out? Kabir would die, but it was Amiti who felt like he was bleeding.
“Swear it!” Kabir shouted suddenly, attracting the attention of nearby soldiers.
“I swear,” Amiti replied, looking Kabir in the eyes. “I swear I will live.”
“They will take me, and we will never see each other again.” Kabir said, voice as wooden as an oracle’s.
“How could you possibly know that?” Amiti replied. “Maybe they will keep us together.”
Kabir shook his head. “No, my love. I’ve got slave in my blood and a tattoo of the Three on my chest. I won’t last long once we roll through those gates. We both know it.”
The finality of the moment stole Amiti’s air, and froze his blood. He’d known they’d end like this. Some part of him had always known; but knowing a thing and living through it were entirely two different beasts. This moment was too strong, too powerful, and they were both chained so they couldn’t touch. All he wanted to do was touch.
“Amiti, my love, you have made my life worth living,” Kabir said. The cart rolled through the gate. Soldiers opened the back panel. One reached in, unlocked Kabir’s shackles, and hauled him out with shocking force. Another did the same for Amiti. He had only an instant to take in the camp; it’s dusty paths, emaciated bodies everywhere. The sunken eyes that watched them impassively. Guards were taking Kabir one way and him the other, toward a low, squat building with a straw roof. Kabir shouted over his shoulder before the soldiers pulled him around a distant corner, “When I die, I will wait for you!”
Amiti came back to himself, to the present, with a gasp and a wordless roar. His vision went shockingly clear in a flash, and the world arrayed itself before him in brilliant rainbow hues. The man who carried his death was all sharp angles and contrasts. Pointed chin, sharp cheekbones, hard eyes mixed with soft skin, and slightly rounded, well-fed belly. His hair had been shaved close to his head, just black fuzz along his scalp. The brand on his cheek marked him as an earth talent.
“I will meet my death with courage,” Amiti said, though without teeth and with the end of his tongue cut off, it came out incoherent. The officer seemed to understand what he was saying and nodded once.
“I have a wagon outside. Clean him off, and then load him up. We need to make it back to the Reach as soon as possible.”
“Comrade,” his torturer said.
More sharp footfalls, and then there was nothing. His torturer, a man he hadn’t wanted to see, or taken the time to look at, came around the front of him. There was some fumbling with the ropes that held him up against the whipping cross. With a cry of agony, his right arm was released. He’d been in that position for so long his arms felt frozen in place, joints stiff and swollen. His wrist, without the restraint covering the raw, infected skin there, pulled a cry out of him that sounded more like a kicked dog than a man. His other wrist was released with the same results, and then his knees and ankles.
His joints were all pulled apart. He’d been stretched on the rack, and once the ropes were untied, he fell like so much laundry to the floor, his broken, swollen, beaten body slammed to the stones and another wail was yanked out of him. His torturer left him there, opened the door, and Amiti heard, “Is the vat ready? Captain Josef needs him soon.”
“It is ready,” another person replied.
The vat.
The words sent a cold chill through Amiti.
The vat was one of the worst things that he experienced. Worse than the whips and chains, or the rack. A few minutes or a year later, someone came and grabbed him, picked him up off the floor and dragged him out the door and down the hall, hands under his armpits, into another room that smelled like the ocean. Like hell. Another set of hands grabbed his legs and in a second, he was flying through the air. The world paused, and he felt like he was suspended hovering over everything like a half-realized thought.
Then he was crashing into the water, a shriek tearing through his body, his mouth and lungs filling with liquid. Salt water assaulted him, probed all of his broken, missing pieces, all the fresh wounds and holes in his skin. A pain so acute it made the world go black and smothered him and then there was nothing.
The next thing he knew, he was laying in the back of another wagon. He blinked, felt it rocking under him, the ruts in the road, the horse up front clop-clopping toward Lord’s Reach, toward his final ending. Somewhere behind him, Kabir’s body lay. That hurt. It hurt that he wouldn’t rest next to his husband, that both of them would sleep eternally in unmarked graves. No one would visit them. No one would light candles in their memories. No one would know who they were. Their lines would end with them, their bodies left to rot in the graveyard of anonymity.
Mostly, it hurt that he’d never know where Kabir lay. It seemed like a betrayal to leave his husband behind, and know that he’d never lay flowers on his grave, never weep over him. An entire life, erased in an instant. A love story so beautiful it could break the world, forgotten in a blink. Life was so very fragile. He hadn’t realized that until he saw Kabir, cold and torn open, shredded on that stone floor like so much meat. Hadn’t realized how a man could be both alive and dead at the same time, but here he was, one foot in each world, torn in the worst possible way.
He closed his eyes, felt the movement of the wagon, and thought he heard Kabir’s voice, soft and full of love, whispering right in his ear. “I’m here, Amiti,” his husband said. “I’ll catch you when you fall.” The words were so real, he halfway expected to turn his head and find Kabir there, lying beside him, a soft smile on his lips, his heart beating under his breast.
“I’m scared,” Amiti tried to say, but the words caught on his stub of a tongue.
“It will hurt,” he heard Kabir say. “Death always hurts. A flash of pain, and then it’s over and I will be there. I will be waiting for you, like I promised.”
He already felt dead, save for his foolish fucking heart, that mercilessly beating muscle. He’d thought it had exploded when he’d seen Kabir’s body, but now he realized that it was still there, pumping its way through all his hurt and pain. He was ready for the end. He wanted relief.
He wanted freedom.
He was just an innkeeper. He was nobody.
“Death, like all truths, hurts,” his dead husband whispered in his ear. “Life is the beautiful lie, beloved. Soon, we’ll have our eternity splayed before us. I’m waiting in that pause, that indrawn breath, where one day ends and another begins, where the world is full of nothing but possibility and the sweet fragrance of promise. Soon you will join me, and we will walk hand in hand into our tomorrow.”
The wagon rolled to a stop. He heard soldiers mumbling in low tones. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, or how far they were. Slotskaya was at least a week north of the Reach. They probably had a way to go yet.
He smelled cooking food. His empty stomach moaned and he felt bile surge up and over his cracked lips. The stars danced overhead. “Sleep,” Kabir murmured. “Sleep my love. We’ll be together soon.”
Amiti closed his eyes and let his husband’s whispered, ghostly words usher him into a peaceful, bottomless darkness.
INTERLUDE
IN THE GROUND
The new collectivist commissar had been sent directly from Lord’s Reach. Fed a diet rich in idealism, he blazed into Alam’s tiny, unassuming village like a comet, righteous indignation trailing in his wake.
He informed them that he had been se
nt to root out any hidden subversives and land owners, counter-revolutionaries secretly working against the state. His zeal was palpable, upsetting the balance of Alam’s quiet, predictable life with the force of his presence alone.
He hadn’t found any hidden elements. Instead, he’d found Alam and Maria.
They’d been caught in the act, and had spent the past two weeks in shackles, interrupted only by horrible re-education sessions. Marched into the old, outlawed temple that now served as a meeting house, they were made to stand still while everyone they’d ever known decried their real and imagined faults, each shout louder than the last, as though volume and fervor proved loyalty to the Premier’s vision.
Now, they were at their trial, kneeling at the edge of the pit they’d dug with their own hands.
“You are accused of stealing grain from the state. How do you plead?” the commissar asked, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. It echoed off the buildings and cottages around them like a slap.
Alam could have said so much in answer. He could have said, “The girl was an orphan. She was starving, almost dead. It wasn’t even good grain. You wouldn’t feed it to a hog, but it was all we had. Her eyes were haunted. How could we turn her away?”
Instead, he just said, “Comrade, I am guilty.”
His wife’s quiet affirmation mirrored his.
“Do you have any final words?” the commissar asked, brandishing his knife. It had an edge so fine it looked like it could cut the world in half.
Alam turned to Maria, saw the years etched on her face, and smiled. Never had a woman looked more beautiful. “My love, I will meet you when we are both in the ground.”
And just like that, it was over.
She died as she had lived—gracefully.
For his part, the knife was sharp, like freedom.
The Ascended
Ultimatums
All that’s out here is sand, Dreshti said to him along their connection. Sand, sand and more sand. And it’s red, Lyall. Red sand. It’s unbelievable. You know what really gets me, though? I walked through a village the other day. People actually live out here. Willingly. Someone came here once, a thousand years ago, and thought this looked like a great place to live. Sand, Lyall, gets everywhere. I’m going to spend the rest of my existence picking it out of my teeth. These people are mad.
What are they like? He hadn’t been up there yet. Hadn’t been able to leave his barrow. He’d been busy keeping that call going out through the soil, monitoring the progress of his potentials. It took almost all of his energy. It was an effort to make sure he was heard, despite how some of them fought him.
Mostly, he was afraid to walk through that city he’d buried. He didn’t want to face that. Someday, he’d have to, but right now there was enough going on; he could pretend it wasn’t out there, waiting for him like a monster from his worst nightmare, all those silenced voices eager to be heard.
He was curious, though. Every time he woke up, the people he found were different.
They are brown and wingless. Dreshti replied. And afraid of me.
Well, you are rather terrifying. He made sure she heard his laugh, made sure some of the sting was taken out of his words.
Her wings had always set her apart. They were uncanny. Beautiful, luminous things that could hypnotize anyone who looked at them too long. He could only imagine how they would appear to a society who had never seen anything like them before. Dreshti had spent her life trying to hide from the attention they brought her.
They’ve never seen anyone like me before. A pause. How are things going over there?
Can you feel them? He asked. He knew he could. They were arrayed above him, all of them drawing on more and more power. Soon, everything would reach its apex, and they’d either Become or die. Connections were forming. He couldn’t just sense them now, but actually feel them. This was such a potent, powerful, ready group. Every day made him believe that these people might actually succeed. Hope was starting to grab him, and hold on. An entire host, after a timeless existence of being only half fulfilled, half of what he could be. It was almost too much to wrap his mind around.
I can feel… something. I’m connected to one of them. Is there a mind talent in this group?
I think so.
Ah, that explains it. Whatever she felt about that, she closed off from him. Dreshti didn’t play well with others. I think it’s time you tell me why this is happening, Lyall. I know you like your secrets, but I can feel everything changing. These potentials are pulling on our magic, starting to form connections. You need to explain to me why I should be invested in this. Give me a reason for my endless track through this desert.
Seeing me again isn’t enough?
She snorted.
She was right. She wouldn’t be able to sense what he could. She wouldn’t know anything about the heart of the world, but she could probably feel it dying. Soon, she’d probably see it. He was surprised she hadn’t yet, truthfully. He’d given it that fatal crack and it was bleeding, all that raw magic hitting the world at once. He’d given them all an ultimatum. Either this works, or they all die, and he supposed she should know that. Push or pull. One way or the other, this half-life he’d been living would end.
The heart of the world is dying, he finally admitted.
She didn’t react, didn’t respond. He wasn’t even sure she heard him. He could still feel her awareness in their bond, but nothing else. Just a silence that was louder than words.
I woke up, and felt it in the earth. Fading. Sick. Wasting away.
What did you do, Lyall? She sounded horrified.
Of course she’d know he did something, he had to meddle. He had to push events along. It was in his nature. He’d always been a meddler. He was so tired of this endless, monotonous life he was living, so he’d inserted himself into a situation that he’d had no business being in.
I cracked it, he admitted.
You are such a fool! Dreshti shouted. The heart of the world is dying, so instead of waiting for the rest of us to wake up and converge to see if we could heal it, the four of us together, you decided to give it a fatal wound? Her voice was so loud in his mind he actually flinched. You killed us all!
Dreshti—
You didn’t even give us time. Didn’t wait for us to have a say. You just did it. You took control. You ended our lives without giving us a thought. You murdered us.
Those potentials will form a whole host, he reminded her. I didn’t do this without thought. A whole host will give us options. A whole host will save us. A whole host could heal the heart.
How many times have we woken, Lyall? How many times have we been through this? You’re the oldest among us. You’re the only one who survived your ascension. I’m the only one who survived mine. What chance do you really think this has to succeed? You’re choking yourself on hope. You’ll die with it stuck in your throat, suffocating on your dreams of tomorrow.
I’m tired, Dreshti. He didn’t shout, just let the words out on a ragged sigh. He let her feel his exhaustion, the weight of it was something only she could understand—another creature nearly as old as he. He felt empty. He’d done this over and over again; woken up, just to watch all of his hopes and dreams die slow, agonized deaths. He was ready for some finality, to end this infernal waiting. He wanted to either choke, or breathe.
He looked around his barrow, this large cavernous space that was the fulcrum of his power, and saw how bare it was; nothing but him, his stick-figure art, and the low throb of his earth talent filling him up. It was a reflection of himself. Skin stretched over bones, forming walls that kept his emptiness prisoner.
You want to die, she almost whispered. She was horrified. The strength of the emotion too strong for her to hide.
I am tired, he repeated. I have given us options, but there will be no more waiting, no more sleeping, just to wake and wonder if maybe this time we will get to live. Either the heart dies, or the heart lives. One way or the other, it’s ove
r.
Is this because of your children and Niamh?
He didn’t answer. There were places he didn’t want her to go, things he didn’t want her to see. Sometimes pain was so heavy it couldn’t be shared.
Lyall—
Enough, Dreshti. I’m done talking about it. Just come here. These potentials are different. I can feel it. They are stronger and far more desperate. And there’s water and fire in the middle of them all.
Stunned silence. Then, with barely a whisper, Dreshti said, Life and soul.
Yes. Life and soul. You see why this may work? We’ve never had fire and water before. Never had life or soul. I never even knew such talents existed. How could we be a host without them?
They have to Become, Lyall. They have to. He’d never heard Dreshti this desperate before, as though she had just tumbled over the side of a cliff and was holding onto the ledge with her fingertips. They will change everything.
They’ll bring us to life, he replied.
They could heal the heart.
You understand now, Dreshti?
Yes. She answered. I want to live.
Then help me. Help them. This is our last chance. I’ve made sure of that. I will never sleep again.
Do you still have the drugged honey? She asked.
Yes.
Good. You may need it. Her words were firm, and he wondered if she was giving him a clue based on her sight, or if it was just a general suggestion. He turned to see his small pot of the stuff propped against the wall of his barrow. Their honey was special, used to usher them into their ageless sleep, taken from the hives of one particular bee who lived high up in the Ox Mountains. It never fermented, never spoiled, never lost its potency.
She was gone in a blink, her awareness pulled back from his, but satisfaction filled him up. She understood. She would help. Dreshti was a lot of things, but she was a survivor at her core. She’d do what it took to make sure she saw tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that.
