“You’ll never break me,” I whispered.
Father Daven faltered and his grin slowly faded, seeing what my eyes revealed. Without a word, he yanked me up and hauled me out into the main room where the other boys sat quietly before the fire. My pants were still down around my ankles, but I was unashamed. Like crossed swords, our eyes locked. He’d thought to humiliate me in front of the other boys, but instead, a child of seven was staring him down in front of them.
It was a small victory. But I savored it.
After what seemed like a lifetime but may have been only moments, he tore his eyes from mine. Again the blows rained down, with screams of, “Bastard son of adulterers!” and “Filthy son of a whore!” to punctuate each blow. I stood straight, doing my best not to react. Having gotten frequent beatings for years, my tender skin had grown somewhat calloused on my buttocks and thighs, though I still felt the pain. I bit back each cry and swallowed every tear as best I could.
At last, the blows and names stopped.
Father Daven grunted, muttering “I need more wine”, and reeled from the room.
I pulled up my pants, wiped away my tears, and stood before the fire, showing no emotion. Except in my eyes: they burned with a new, unquenchable hope. My friend Josu, his eyes gentle and somehow resolute, looked back at me.
Later that night, Father Daven fell down the staircase, dying of a broken neck. The priests assumed it was an accident.
“He had too much to drink,” one declared.
“He lost his footing,” another surmised. But I knew in my heart that Josu had pushed him.
Josu denied it when I asked him, but quickly looked away, changing the subject. It was the first time anyone had ever acted out of love for me.
These experiences—the horror, my unbroken spirit, and Josu’s love—made me into the man I am. It’s why I have a love/hate relationship with God, although ultimately, I believe it was He who helped me see how to save myself. And it’s why I hate injustice and cruelty in all its forms.
So when I got to the Queensrealm and saw how the men of the queendom were treated—and often mistreated—my spirit began to rise up within me once again. I spent less and less time with Malyse in the sex temples because she Chose Ladies who treated their suitors roughly, knowing they couldn’t speak up in their own defense. I had no taste at all for such games of power, pain, humiliation and control, having been on the receiving end of them too many times.
I began spending more and more time with the slaves, watching how they lived and died. Some were cosseted like pets, while others were beaten like dogs, but none were treated as human, let alone as the equals they were. Treated as less than human myself as a child, I knew only too well what it could do to one’s spirit.
Ironically, the Queensrealm came to be because of the mistreatment of women by men. The slaves have passed down the story from Mentor to Mentee in certain Houses over the past three hundred-odd years. I learned it from Kisto when he told it to Jaereth as a lad, and I can still hear his rough voice in my memory, telling the story:
“It all began back when this island was a prison colony and a dumping ground for the severely mentally ill. The problem was, the mainland failed to send over enough jailors to keep up with the rising numbers of prisoners and patients they kept sending.
“They kept male and female inmates separate at first, but soon penned them together like cattle. There simply weren’t enough cells. That’s when the rape gangs began. Most of the women were mentally ill and unable to defend themselves. Both male prisoners and male guards used them cruelly. When women became pregnant, the guards beat them until they miscarried.
“Quietly, a woman named Aleyna began to gather the women together for mutual protection. Aleyna herself had been raped as a child by her own father and brothers, it was said. She’d walked into town one day at the age of thirteen covered in blood, having murdered her whole family with a pitchfork.
“They say she told the other women, ‘I’ll die before I let another man touch me.’ She and her group viciously fought off any men who approached them. The men found easier or more willing prey, and soon gave Aleyna’s group a wide berth.
“One day, to gain their freedom, the male prisoners rose up, killing every guard, though many of them died doing so. Those who survived left the prison and most of the women behind to go survey their surroundings and choose a suitable site to build a town. Aleyna gathered those they left behind into her group, knowing the men would soon return.
“The women were outnumbered five to one. Aleyna and her ten lieutenants agonized for days over whether they should all flee into the forest, hoping to hide from the men, or wait for their return and die in an attempt to save the others. But one night, Aleyna had a dream, later claiming a Goddess had appeared to her as she slept. The Goddess told her that she and her group should arm themselves and leave the prison, following the men in the direction they had gone. Once they found them, they were to be careful to remain unseen, and wait for nightfall. Then they were to creep up to them as they slept and slit their throats. This is exactly what they did.
“In the morning, the sun rose over a grisly scene. The few men they spared, most little more than boys, they locked up. Aleyna’s dreams continued, with a total of eleven Goddesses visiting her, instructing her to create a new society ruled by women. In this new society, men were to be raised from childhood to believe they were little better than the animals they truly were. Aleyna and her ten lieutenants became the first High Elders of the Eleven Houses. They named each House after one of the eleven Goddesses who had appeared to Aleyna, each serving a different, important purpose in the new society. They named their new city the Queensrealm.
“Forty-six men and boys survived Aleyna’s attack. They were kept separate from one another and under armed guard day and night. Most were raped at knifepoint and humiliated. While some had participated in the rape gangs, many had not, since they were so young. The Ladies gave the men, now slaves, any boy children they gave birth to, to be raised under the watchful eye of their captors.”
Some eyes were less watchful than others, especially as time passed. A few were able to pass on their true history along with a sense of identity, and Kisto was among these. The hope was that someday they would walk the earth as free men, equal with women and in control of their own lives, just as their forebears once had.
It was not unlike the dream I’d treasured in my own heart every day when I was a child growing up in the orphan’s home—a longing to be free of abuse and to know love. That’s why I take the plight of the slaves very personally indeed. The Resistance has become my own little war against those who crush the spirits of others for their own control and benefit.
But enough of my musing. It’s early morning, the day after the House Klia Masquerade Ball. Kisto, Jaereth, and twenty-odd other slaves from House Beltarra have been sent to repair a crumbling wall, the dividing line between House Amalria and House Stalia.
As is usually the case, the slaves travel without a Lady escorting them. The Ladies have better things to do, and the penalty for disobeying orders or trying to escape the Queensrealm is death. This threat, along with the ingrained belief that they are little better than animals unable to survive without the guidance and protection of their masters, keeps most slaves in check. Should they try to escape, the House Amalria Elite Corps constantly patrol the wall around the city, ready to take them into custody.
The impending chaos of the planned uprising by the other, more violent Resistance faction has the men arguing about what role their group should play.
“We can’t just stay out of it, I say,” says Old Arn, the group’s greybeard. “It’s time we finally take back what should rightfully be ours.” He spits, while his cronies all murmur agreement, looking anywhere but at Kisto.
Kisto frowns. He’s always had a more gentle spirit than a rebel should have, but his sense of injustice wars with it. I know him well enough from my years of riding along inside his head
to know he agrees with Old Arn but is desperately casting about in his head for a way to minimize the carnage to come.
“I just think we should try to knock them out instead of killing them, then take them prisoner as they did our forefathers,” Kisto argues, but the other men shake their heads before he’s done speaking. He may be the leader, but they’ve all suffered at the hands of their owners, and talk of mercy doesn’t sit well with them.
It’s Jaereth who replies, not looking at his father (a forbidden word in the Queensrealm, but that’s how he sees Kisto, the man who raised him).
“Old Arn is right.” The others all hang on Jaereth’s words. He has always had this effect on people. He runs a hand through his chestnut hair, as he often does when thinking hard. “The time has come to stand with our brothers and take back the freedoms our forefathers enjoyed, by whatever means necessary. I don’t think we should kill them all, because we’ll need women to birth our new society, but many of them will have to be sacrificed to gain our freedom.”
Kisto bows his head a moment, then reaches out and puts his hand on Jaereth’s shoulder. Riding in Jaereth’s mind, I sense, as does everyone around me, the pride and resignation Kisto feels. The moment Kisto hoped for has come: Jaereth has taken his place as Beltarra’s Resistance leader. But it inevitably means a toppling of Kisto’s authority and a significant shift in strategy for the group. And it will mean blood will flow.
Yet it’s a welcome shift, I think to myself. Kisto, like his Mentor before him, never had the ruthless nature necessary to take the Resistance from whispered dissent to active revolt. Jaereth has the loyalty and respect of the rebels, the charisma to guide them to death’s door without wavering, and the merciless determination of one born to be free but who finds himself enslaved. He is the son of destiny.
I can’t help but remember Sera’s face when I told her of the impending uprising, feeling again her terror and grief at the thought of losing those she loves. House Klia and one or two others treat their slaves like pets rather than vermin. They don’t deserve to die for that. Yet, my sense of injustice argues, They participate in the evil of slavery, so they must also partake in its price.
Like Jaereth, I know there’s no other way forward except in the spilling of blood upon the altar of Freedom. It’s no different than what these Ladies’ forebears did so many years ago.
We arrive at the section of stone wall we were sent to repair. The men assess the damage and agree on a plan of action to repair it. A span of wall about fifty strides long and the height of a man, not sheltered under the neighboring trees like the rest of the wall, has suffered under decades of buffeting wind and rain, resulting in crumbling bricks. Several men begin unloading the wagon we brought with us to haul the new-hewn limestone bricks they’ll put in their place. The rest set about removing the damaged bricks from the wall. When the pile of new bricks standing near the wall is substantial enough, and the weather-damaged bricks have been removed, they set to work rebuilding the wall.
Sera blinks into existence beside the wagon, and I step out of Jaereth to join her. I visited her at House Klia earlier that morning, asking her to help me. As I am every time I see her, I’m careful to shield how I’m beginning to feel about her. It’s not the right time to woo her.
“Gideon visited after you left,” she confides. “He told me what gifts they’ve given their Chosen.” She describes each in turn, but I’m most impressed with Miklos’ ability. Moving objects with one’s mind will come in handy in the midst of a struggle.
“Why don’t you want to wait until tonight when Jaereth is asleep to give him the gift?”
“Three reasons. First, ever since he found out about the planned uprising, Jaereth hasn’t been able to sleep much.” Sera nods in understanding. “To his credit, it’s not fear keeping him awake, but the weight of responsibility for the men of his faction. Fortunately, at his age he doesn’t need much sleep, but I’d rather not disturb the little he’s likely to get. Second, he and some of the younger faction members plan to slip out tonight to sharpen some sticks to use as weapons on Field Day. And third, I want him to have this ability now in case he or the others get caught.”
“So what gift did you decide on?”
I can sense the fear she’s trying to mask. She knows that any ability I give Jaereth might ultimately be used against Kella and her family.
“I decided to give him the ability to influence others’ minds.”
She blinks in surprise, the possibilities flooding her mind.
I quickly explain, “His dominant flows of Spirit and Life best lend themselves to controlling life in some fashion. This way, Jaereth can insure that many of the Queensrealm Ladies can be captured without bloodshed. There may be a limit to the number of minds he can influence at once, at least at first. That’s why I need your help: the stronger the ability, the more Ladies he may be able to control, and therefore save.”
She purses her lips in thought, looking down for a long moment with her emotions shuttered. Is she angry? I wonder, bracing myself.
When she finally looks up, I see with relief that her eyes shine with gratitude.
“It was kind of you to forego the more violent types of abilities for one that potentially saves the lives of the people I love,” she says quietly. “Thank you, Wilde.”
My invisible heart thumps with pleasure at her words. I fight not to grin like an idiot. Instead, I give her a lazy grin and half-bow. She giggles, giving me a small curtsy in reply. Her big brown eyes are bright in the sunlight despite our dimmed radiance, the dimples in her cheeks as she smiles up at me making me want to kiss them. Quickly, I turn my mind from such thoughts and to the task at hand.
“Shall we?” I ask, gesturing for her to proceed me. Jaereth and the others just sat down to share a meal of apples, bread, and water from a skin bag that each carries at his side.
Stepping into Jaereth, I do my best to ignore the conversation he’s having with Canu, his best friend since they were younglings. Sera joins her mind and intentions with mine. It’s like settling into a hot bath—we ease in slowly, sliding through the layers of thought, will and emotion to Jaereth’s innermost being, the process taking little effort on our part after so many decades of practice.
His thoughts revolve around weapons caches and the logistics of getting hundreds of men to the Field of Honor on the day of the hanging without arousing suspicion. I think about control, about making others do things with one’s mind. Sera’s mind echoes mine. Together, we imagine looking out through Jaereth’s eyes, ‘seeing’ the minds around him in a new way. He can already sense their emotions; it’s not that different to sense the will and intentions of others and turn them so they’re in line with his own. We imagine Kisto being dragged away by House Amalria Elite Corps, then envision them halted in their tracks by a single thought from Jaereth. We see them letting Kisto go and walking away, shaking their heads, with no memory of what just transpired.
Minutes pass as we imagine these things. There’s a sort of tension building as the flow of energy within Jaereth redirects and strengthens. At last, we look through Jaereth’s eyes at Canu and the others, filling Jaereth with the overwhelming need to say two words: —Stop talking—
Canu, who’s describing how he was practicing his knife-throwing late last night, “when I managed to kill a fly on the wall with a lucky thr—” immediately closes his mouth and stares into space.
The men all around us do the same, staring dumbly at nothing. We turn our thoughts to calming Jaereth’s startled reaction, sending his mind, groping for an explanation, toward one set of conclusions: This must be a gift from the gods! But why now? To help with the uprising?
Canu and the others soon resume their stories right where they left off, unaware of any interruption. Another test is in order. This time, we turn our attention to Kisto, who brings his apple to his mouth for a bite. Jaereth thinks —Stop— and Kisto’s hand pauses right in front of his lips. Evig, who’s talking to him, gives Kist
o a funny look but says nothing. A moment later, with our will releasing his, Kisto takes a bite of the apple without hesitation.
Shortly thereafter, the men put away their food scraps and reach for their tools. Sera and I step out of Jaereth to give him some time to adjust to the idea of his new ability.
Jaereth walks over to Kisto and asks him casually, “Can I talk to you, alone?”
Kisto nods once. The two of them split off from the others. Soon, they’re out of earshot. “I’ve had something strange happen,” Jaereth explains.
Kisto takes in Jaereth’s serious expression. “What?” he says cautiously.
“I was sitting there, listening to Canu,” Jaereth begins, then hesitates. Kisto rolls his eyes in sympathy, for Canu’s long-windedness is legendary. “For some reason, I felt the urge to say, ‘Stop talking’, and not just Canu, but everyone around us stopped. Right in the middle of a word. They all stared into space for a time. I was so shocked, I almost dropped my bread.”
Kisto stares at Jaereth, waiting for the punchline to a bad joke.
“I swear it’s true!” Jaereth protests. “And that’s not all.”
Kisto looks patiently unconvinced. “Oh?”
“I…I looked over at you, about to take a bite from your apple, and told you to stop. And you did.”
Jaereth has a pleading look in his eyes. —Believe me— he whispers. Kisto blinks, then nods.
“Show me,” he says. They walk over to where Old Arn stands, taking a drink from his water skin.
—Drop it— Jaereth tells Old Arn. Without hesitation, Old Arn opens his fingers, letting the water skin fall. He stares blankly at Jaereth as if waiting for his next order. Kisto and Jaereth look at each other for a long moment.
“This could be very useful,” Kisto muses. Jaereth nods thoughtfully, stroking his hands through his chin stubble.
Kisto bends to pick up the water skin.
“Here, you dropped this,” he says simply. Old Arn blinks once and takes it from him.
“Did I?” Old Arn takes a drink like nothing strange happened.
Gambit of the Gods Page 12
