Seraphina's Lament (The Bloodlands Book 1)

by Sarah Chorn

  How many of them had he served at his inn, welcomed to his fires, fed with his food?

  The moon was rising, cold and bright, when they brought him onto the stage. The executioners tied him to a post and yelled at him, and yelled at the crowd. Cursed him. This performance must have a point, a reason for being, and so they gave it one. His death must benefit the state.

  This was an exchange of wants. These men had to feel justified in their abuse, and the crowd needed to have an excuse for their voyeurism. They fed each other on the scraps of Amiti’s life, and thrived.

  They whipped him while people watched. He sprayed the first few rows with his blood, baptizing them into his cult of violence and pain. Then they untied him from the post and dragged him to the rack, stretched him on it until his joints popped and he cried out, beyond caring, far removed from pride. He was nothing but fire. He saw nothing but agony.

  After they’d done all they could to him there, they dragged him to the gibbet and put the rope around his neck. They pulled until the noose cut off his breath, and right when he was praying for blessed relief, clawing for the end, they loosened it. His vision came back slowly, dark as death at the edges. He coughed, his lungs instinctively seeking air. His fucking lungs were betraying him, fighting for breath when he yearned for his own bitter end. He choked and rasped. He clawed at the splintered boards now covered in his blood and bile. If he’d had nails, they would have broken off. Sound came back slowly, but no one in the crowd spoke. The jeering and shouting had stopped. The square was silent as the grave. Overhead, a bird cawed.

  They feasted on his torment, these spectators, gorging themselves on his banquet of anguish.

  Just end it! his mind roared what his mouth could not speak. His throat was on fire. He felt like he’d swallowed the sun. He could make no noise, but his mouth gaped like a fish, desperate gasps rattling from his lungs, their last-ditch effort to keep his broken, abused body alive. It was the unforgettable music of the almost-dead.

  Someone in a sharp uniform appeared before him and bellowed in his face, but Amiti just looked at him balefully. He couldn’t understand the words, or what the man wanted him to do.

  He almost laughed. They had beaten him unto the end of his life, and yet he had still won. They had gotten nothing from him. Pathetic peacocks, the lot of them. He mustered up that last seed of defiance he had been nurturing and rolled it over his stump of a tongue before spitting his blood, bile, and snot into this official’s face. Let that be his last words. He was happy with them.

  He had lived a full, happy life. He had been a man in love. He had tried to do good.

  Now he just wanted to die.

  It was time. He was ready.

  They picked him up from where he’d dropped, one man under each arm, his useless legs dragging behind him like a macabre dress. Another man tightened the noose around his neck again, and Amiti knew this was it. There was a finality in this scene that all of the others had lacked, a solemn reverence and respect for the person who had defied them despite their best efforts. He cast his eyes over the crowd and found one man, a man with long black dreadlocks, dark skin, and wide, angry eyes flashing with lightning.

  It was a face he knew, on a man he loved.

  Vadden.

  Above, the sky was filling with clouds, each one choking out the stars, a storm rolling in after a year of ceaseless sunlight. Vadden, standing in the center of it like some sort of vengeful god. The world went silent and still. It was beautiful. It was the kind of beautiful that made him want to scream.

  Amiti moved his mouth, but no sound came out. Vadden didn’t looked away. He would be a silent, solemn witness to Amiti’s death. Vadden would carry his memory. Vadden, his brother in all the ways that mattered, would make these people pay, and their payment would be a pound of flesh, and a river of blood.

  Unleash the hounds of hell, my brother, he wanted to say aloud, but Vadden nodded as though he had heard Amiti’s last words. As though Amiti had whispered them right in his ear.

  Give ‘em hell, Vadden mouthed back. Amiti smiled one last, toothless, bloody smile. It was the kind of smile best worn with a noose.

  Vadden raised a fist high in the air. It was a salute, one soldier of the revolution to another.

  Time, you fickle bitch, I will finally get to meet you.

  The floor fell out from under him, and Amiti was finally released from the prison of his body.

  Kabir, my love, I hope you waited for me.

  INTERLUDE

  The Devouring World

  First, Vasilisa buried her husband. Then, she opened a school in her village of Ifdel.

  She was close enough to the Reach to still have some food; not much, but some. She also had her husband’s ration card. The local commissar wasn’t yet aware of the fact that he was dead, so she was getting double rations and saving his half. She found a few other women who also had their deceased husbands’ ration cards and a larder full of worry. Together, they put their energy into feeding the orphaned, destitute children who came to them, giving them shelter and security, teaching them letters and numbers. Mostly, her school was just a place to keep kids safe, away from the nightly sweeps they all pretended not to hear. Those dreadful hours when the patrols would walk through the streets, round up all the homeless and orphaned children, and shove them in the pits at the edge of the village, cutting off their pleas with all that dirt.

  It was going fairly well, all things considered. They took in six starving pupils, and four of them lived longer than three weeks. Then, they decided to take on another three children Vasilisa had seen wandering around, hopeless vagabonds with swollen joints and haunted, yellow eyes. They tugged at her heart. Somehow, they’d been missed by the nightly sweeps. Beyond all reason, they had survived.

  She brought them into her school and lay them down on pallets, deciding that she’d wait until she spoke with Svetlana, a hedge witch, before she gave them any food. Some children were so swollen with hunger their middles would burst open if they ate, skin peeling away like the rind of an orange, and she didn’t want to risk it with them. Better to be safe.

  The oldest was a girl, then a boy of about six, and finally a toddler just out of his nappies. When they lay down, the littlest one started crying, the throaty, desperate, harsh wailing of the starved who were insane for want of food. It brought tears to her eyes. Was the road to revolution to be trod on the corpses of children? She got them comfortable, and then left to get some water from the bucket right outside. She filled up one precious bowl, and then made her way back into the house.

  It wasn’t until she was outside the door that she realized the youngest boy had stopped crying. She steeled her heart against the sorrow of another pointless death, and peeked around the edge of the doorway.

  A scream lodged in her throat, choking her.

  She dropped the water she’d retrieved, spilling it everywhere, drops glistening on her shoes like tears.

  The children didn’t even notice. They were too busy peeling skin off the toddler’s legs and eating it. She watched in horror as the boy reached down, grabbed a chunk of skin from his own body, and shoved it in his mouth, swallowing almost before he could finish chewing.

  This is what the Sunset Lands had turned into.

  A world, devouring itself.

  The Ascended

  Push and Pull

  It was happening. They were so close. All of them were converging right above his head. He put the call into the soil, and felt each of them respond. They were far enough along now that he could sense them. He knew their names, felt their souls twine with his, kindred spirits making up a different kind of family. He’d never imagined he’d get so close with a group this large, but now it was all he could think about. In all the attempts before, at least three of them would have died by now. But this group was different. He thought maybe it was because these ones had water and fire in the middle of them all, life and soul, and as long as those two were fighting, the rest of them
would as well.

  He had his arms in the soil constantly, his call being carried through the earth to all of them. He was desperate, and he let them feel it. Let it fill them up. He hid none of his yearning from them.

  They were Becoming. Lives were smashing together. Mortality was being shredded. They were turning into magic, and losing their humanity. He couldn’t wait for them to make their way down to him. He wanted to meet them, his new brothers and sisters.

  But they had to survive. Surviving was the hard part, and none of them had been past that barrier yet. Close, but they hadn’t completely crossed over. Below his feet, the heart of the world was beating its last. It would die soon. They didn’t have much time left. Now that it was all happening, he wasn’t so exhausted anymore. Nor was he empty. No, now he was filled with purpose, a righteous zeal that he’d forgotten he was capable of feeling. He had no time left for Dreshti or her banter. He’d closed her off completely, focused solely on those above. They either survived, or everyone and everything died along with the world when its heart beat its last.

  Soon.

  This was what he’d been born for. This push and pull, this subtle manipulation. He could shape mountains, or events. It didn’t much matter. His hand was what gave the clay form.

  There was a problem, however, and she was named Seraphina.

  He’d tried to call to her. He’d reached her once, felt her awareness turn to him, felt her yearning, clawing desire to go to him—and then suddenly she’d pulled away and now she was almost completely closed off from him. Lyall couldn’t feel her at all. He could feel the rest of them but not her; and without her, none of this could work.

  They needed fire. Their group needed its soul, and if she refused to Become, then her partner, the one who controlled water, the one who was life, would fail right along with her and then all of this would be for nothing.

  He’d been waiting, eager to see who he’d need to push. Every group had one person who hated to lose control, who fought the change for all they were worth. He’d hoped it wouldn’t be fire. The fact that it was made this entire situation so much more dangerous. He wished Dreshti were there, or at least her sight. If she could see possible outcomes, he could choose the right course of action. As it was, he had to take a chance. Maybe he’d get lucky. Maybe she’d give in to temptation and in one burst of energy and a spray of power, she’d Become what she was meant to be.

  He doubted it. He’d never been lucky.

  Lyall sent the call into the earth, felt his ascending brothers and sisters moving up above. Did they realize they were coming to him? Did they know that everything they did now was because of him and his pull? Not yet, but soon.

  This would all happen, soon.

  He studied the stone slab in the center of his barrow, and tried to decide how he would force Seraphina’s hand.

  He’d break her. He’d crack her like an egg.

  The world was dying. He needed her to Become more than he needed her to be sane.

  There was no going back.

  Vadden

  Amiti’s body swung in the wind like a pendulum and all Vadden could hear was the creak of the rope. His death had been horrible, grotesque even to the audience waiting to gobble up his pain like hungry vultures. The doors to the square opened, and people started to file out in nervous, whispering clusters. Vadden stood still, like a storm waiting to break. He balled his hands into fists at his sides and stared up at the body of his brother swinging in the brusque wind.

  Swinging.

  Swinging.

  Swinging.

  Life was such a cruel thing, a beautiful lie full of dreams and fantasies. Death was a cold truth, and Amiti’s body was telling all sorts of truths right now.

  Something wet hit his cheek. He heard someone shout, then more people took up the cry, panic filling the air. Lightning cut the sky in half. He looked up to see the stars were hidden by clouds, thick and dark, full of a year’s worth of rain and ready to expel it all at once.

  Let it rain, he thought. Let the heavens purge themselves. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to drown in something other than his own misery.

  So many lives lost. So many fateful goodbyes. What had it all been for?

  He’d caused this. It was time for him to shake hands with that fact. Amiti’s body swung, rain fell like tears, and Vadden admitted to himself that this was all his fault.

  If only he’d just stayed…

  He fell to his knees, fingers unfurling, hands splayed. He lifted his face to the sky and howled like a wolf at the moon, like a man being ripped apart, his pain finally given a voice.

  Rain fell in a deluge, the skies weeping along with him. The earth shook under his feet and Amiti’s body swung. Lightning forked down from the clouds, hitting his open palms, stabbing him with its power and he lost himself. People panicked, gave him room, moved away like he was contagious, or a wild animal set to devour—and maybe he was. Maybe they were realizing that he was doing this, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing any of them could do about it. Self-preservation won, so they ran.

  The world spiraled into chaos, and that chaos was feeding the darkness inside of him. People were shrieking, grabbing each other, trying to fight the river of rain that was beginning to flood the streets. Guards were trying to pull people through the doorways of the square, out into the city streets, getting people away from him. Voices lifted in worry and panic, crying and shouting, trying to survive the trample of bodies attempting to make it out of the doors.

  Amiti is dead.

  Amiti is dead.

  Amiti is dead.

  The words repeated themselves in his mind like a liturgy, like a prayer. Each repetition slicing into him a bit deeper. Guilt wasn’t an emotion, but a force; a smothering presence, an uninvited guest. He’d done this. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d made that one decision all those years ago and now here he was—with a dead brother swinging in the noose and a sky howling above him.

  Wind picked up, blowing sheets of rain into his eyes, onto his skin, stabbing him like the lightning had. Flashes of blue-white blinded the world. And Amiti’s body swung.

  The square emptied, save for Vadden and a few dead bodies floating in knee-high water, trampled people who might have had a tomorrow if it wasn’t for his rage. Vadden remained on his knees while the sky wept the tears he’d never be able to. He howled again and the clouds broke open, the storm finally giving Vadden all it had. Now it wasn’t just rain, it was a torrent. He was releasing a flood. He felt the energy of the storm overhead, felt his control over it, felt the way it yearned to please him. Like a heavenly lover, it curled around his will and let Vadden make it his own creature. They were one and the same now; Vadden just a body while the storm became his voice.

  He felt himself rip in half, and the presence that had been lurking under the surface of his being, caged like a beast, rose up and roared; smothering mortal, fragile Vadden. He drowned in a fit of grief and anger.

  Vadden changed, because either he shifted to fit the circumstances or the circumstances would destroy him, and he didn’t have any inclination of being destroyed. He was not capable of feeling all this grief, all these emotions, all of this angst. The Vadden he had been couldn’t control the storm, but this other being, the one he’d been hiding and trying to suppress for so long, could. He could call the storm and he could carry the grief that had broken the back of his humanity.

  This death was one too many, one step too far, one emotion too much, and Vadden snapped. The Storm Lord rose up in his place. The world howled with happiness. Magic flooded his body. His soul swelled in a way that was nearly overwhelming, almost sexual. He felt alive, truly alive, for the first time in his life. He was so much more than his body. He felt the world shudder around him and felt himself Become.

  Lightning flared and forked around him, encircling him, embracing him. Rain poured down, hitting his skin with a tenderness that felt like a kiss. Doors to the square banged open and shut i
n the wind, adding to the laughing thunder. All around him, water was waist high at least, but where he was it had parted; giving him space, a circle of calm in the center of a hurricane.

  The Storm Lord opened his eyes and truly saw for the first time. The sky seemed to cackle with glee, lightning painting it silver. Rain sheeted down, turning the dusty streets into muddy rivers. Thunder shook the ground under his feet.

  He laughed, drunk on his new abilities.

  This was what it was to be liberated. This was freedom.

  His skin felt too tight, his body too small and frail to hold him, but it would do for now. Now, he had a purpose, and he had the power to fuel that purpose. He sent his senses out, felt through the storm, felt people dying, drowning in his deluge, struck by lightning, victims of his ire, victims of his impenetrable anger and undefinable grief.

  Beyond that, though, was something else; a sweet siren song, coming from under the palace. He turned his head in the direction of that hulking building, as if in the act he could peel away stone and mortar to see what lurked beneath. He hadn’t heard that call before, not when he’d been Vadden. But now that he was the storm he heard it, a voice urgently shouting his name over and over. It begged him to come. He was needed.

  He wanted to be whole. He was closer to being whole than he’d ever been before. Answering that call would complete him, so he would do just that. He would go to that voice. He would be made whole. It was impossible not to; but first he had people to visit and things to do.