The big man hocked, spat. “Always it’s about this friend. Who is he, anyway?”
The figure went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “The woman you spoke about, the one from Saint’s street? Her name is Rebecca. Has a child, did you know?”
“I don’t see why that matters.”
“I know. As you said, Teshran beat her. Bad enough that she was forced to find a new trade. Do you know what she does now?” A slow shake of the head, reluctant. “She’s a tailor’s assistant, bringing in less money sure—though not by much—but she’s no longer forced to sacrifice her body for what she gets. And the child? Now she gets to grow up with a mother who doesn’t have to worry about being beaten or killed because one of her visitors wants more than he paid for.”
A noncommittal grunt, no more than that. Not that she’d expected more. They’d traveled this ground before. It was covered in their foot prints, moving, always moving, but never going anywhere. She turned away, a sadness welling up in her, and looked at the house again. For a time, they stood in silence, neither of them noticing the rain that drenched them, each with their own thoughts, their own concerns.
Finally, Harmen spoke, “If it’s as bad as you say, why won’t you let us fight back? A few dead Harvesters might give ‘em pause anyway.”
“No,” she said, some anger in her tone now. “We’re not assassins. It’s not our way.”
“Not your way, you mean.” A pause, “Anyway, those two silly bastards are wanting to know what you want ‘em to do now.”
“Nothing. Tell them to wait. To watch and learn what they can.”
“Wait,” he said in a dry voice, “Watch. Like always.”
“Yes.”
A child’s squeal of laughter came from the distant house, and neither spoke until it had faded into nothing once more. Then, “The men are getting tired of waiting, Memory. They feel like we’re not making any progress.”
They? Or you? She brushed away a strand of wet hair that hung in her face then placed her hand on the big man’s shoulder. “We are, Harmen. We are.”
He grunted. “It’s dangerous, you being here. You should come back with me, for your own safety. Besides, the others are scared.”
She stared back at the house and could just make out the form of a seated man as he stomped his feet and clapped his hands, providing the music for the eight year old girl who twirled a dance in the flickering light, laughing, her dress fanning around her. From here, with the rain and the darkness, the girl’s face was blurry and indistinct. She could have been anybody, really. Anybody at all. “Alright,” The woman said, tearing her gaze away, “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It came as it always did after he’d performed the rites. Not a dream, not really, but a moment frozen in time, not a memory but a fragment. A room, aglow with the soft light of an overhead chandelier, a rug beneath him, its surface fuzzy, warm against his legs. Someone behind him, long, feminine hands gripping his arms, too hard, a desperation to their clutching. A child’s toy horse lay forgotten on the dark brown rug. A man, tall and broad shouldered, his blonde hair cut short in military fashion, stood at the thick wooden door, one hand on the knob, his shoulder pressed tight against it. He was turned back, staring at the child and the woman sitting on the rug. His jaw set, fear and anger dancing in his eyes.
A smell on the air, a sour stench of fear and desperation so thick that he wanted to gag. The moment stretched, pulled taut, a frozen instant in time, stretching and stretching further until surely it would break, had to and then … nothing.
Cameron gasped gagging at the sour, bitter taste in his mouth. He stirred, his movements sluggish, as a hand grasped him on the shoulder, thinking of the dream, of those hands so tight on his arms. And had they been shaking? He thought they had. He pulled away weakly, struggling to get out of that grip, a fear he couldn’t quite explain, a fear of what came next maybe, causing panic to stir in his chest. The hand reached out to him, and he jerked away again. The next thing he knew he was falling, grunting as he hit the floor. A voice he recognized spoke from above him. “Relax, Cameron. It’s me, Perdeus.”
Cameron sat up and saw the High Priest staring at him, a look of concern on his face. “Was it the dream again, Cameron?”
Cameron took a deep breath in an effort to steady his rapidly beating heart, “Yes sir.”
“Will you tell me what it’s about this time?”
“I’m sorry, High Priest but I don’t remember.” A lie—he couldn’t forget that dream, not if he wanted to—but this time, as with all the others, he found that he couldn’t bring himself to tell the High Priest about its contents. He couldn’t tell him how he had felt, sitting there in his mother’s arms, a child who is afraid because she is afraid, a child who was afraid but who also felt that everything would be okay because his father was there, his shoulder pressed against the door, his jaw clenched. His father who—in the dream, at least—he believed would protect him, protect his mom. It was the only memory he had of him and how this single instance in time could have stayed in his memory, stayed when all the rest had been stripped away by the rites, Cameron didn’t know. It couldn’t that was all, and the dream was the lie his mind told itself, the remnants of a child searching for a father he could be proud of, one that would protect him and his mother. A comforting lie, maybe, but a dangerous one.
His father was a traitor, a man who’d had his name stripped from the records, his memory wiped from the minds of those who’d known him. A man who had not only turned his back on his duty to his King and kingdom, but one who had murdered his own wife, who would have murdered Cameron, his child, had Marek not come upon him before it was too late.
Cameron felt the familiar shame rise in him, shame at being the son of such a man, but most of all shame at the feeling of being protected, of being loved, that he always felt within the dream. He grunted and rose to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him.
“Take it slow, Cameron,” Perdeus said, grabbing his shoulder to help steady him, “The Sanctification is draining. You should get some rest. The body needs time to recover.”
“I will, sir.” Cameron said, hating himself for lying to the High Priest yet again. During his training, he’d been taught of the intense fatigue that settled on a Harvester after the ritual, a weariness of body and mind that surpassed anything else a man could feel. It was known a condition that came upon all Harvesters after the Sanctification. All, at least, except Cameron. For him, the ritual always left him feeling more awake, more alive than ever. His body was full of energy, his mind full of racing thoughts, and it was all he could do to keep from bouncing on his toes like some street fighter. Even his senses seemed sharper. It was as if he could feel each touch of air on his skin, almost had to wince at the suddenly bright colors in the room—the High Priest’s robes seeming almost to glow.
But, as with the dream, he never spoke of this. It had taken him years to come out from his father’s shadow, to be seen as more than just the traitor’s son. It was why he trained long after the others left, why he took on more assignments than anyone else. Falen would complain about this, oftentimes claiming that he’d been cursed with a partner bent on running him into the ground. But, then, what did Falen know of it? His father was a well-respected scholar, considered by many to be the wisest man in the city. He didn’t know what it was like to have conversation stop when you walked into a room, to hear the whispers as you passed—not being able to make out the words but knowing what they were anyway.
Paren Shale, Cameron’s father, had murdered his wife, had betrayed his kingdom, working with the rebels to overthrow the rightful king and, after being found out and arrested by Marek, had been the first and only Harvester to ever be subjected to the Ritual. It had wiped out the city’s memory of the man, but the Church kept extensive records of the rebellion the ex-Harvester had led, his example used as a warning to Harvesters and High Priests alike, a demonstration of the dangers of turning against the Divines’ will.
“Thank you, High Priest,” Cameron said, starting for the door, “For all your help.”
“Don’t thank me, Cameron. Don’t ever thank me.” Something in the High Priest’s voice made Cameron look back. But the older man was apparently engrossed with a scroll on his desk, so Cameron turned to the door, put his hand on it—feeling each grain, each dip and wave of the wood—and went through it. As it closed behind him, Perdeus looked up and let out a shuddering sigh, one that sounded as if it carried the weight of the world within it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Falen was stifling a yawn—not his first—when the door to the temple’s inner chambers opened and Cameron emerged. “Divines be praised,” he said, “and here I thought maybe Perdeus had locked you up in a cage. Or have I fallen asleep and this is only a dream?”
Cameron stared at him, a dangerous expression on his face that made Falen swallow involuntarily, “Why would you say that?” He said, his voice demanding.
Falen raised his hands in surrender, “It was only a joke, Cameron, that’s all. Besides, more likely Perdeus would bore you to death with some ancient manuscript than put you in a cage.”
“Not that,” Cameron said, still eyeing him, “about the dream. Why’d you say that about the dream?”
Falen laughed, but it sounded desperate even to his own ears. Cameron’s eyes, Divines guard him, is this what their marks felt like when he came upon them? It was a feeling he didn’t relish at all, “I guess,” he said, forcing a smile on his face, “because I’m trying to see how many times I can almost die in one day. Spirits, Cameron, it was a joke, alright? And not even a good one.”
Cameron looked at him for another moment then started away, and Falen couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped him as he fell into step behind him. “Are you alright?”
Cameron didn’t turn to him but kept walking, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Falen shrugged, “I don’t know. I guess your glare is just … squintier than normal, that’s all.”
“It’s too bright in here. The servants must have brought out every damned lantern they could get their hands on.”
Falen started to say that the room was the same as it had been when they’d come through—well-lit, sure, but no more than that, certainly not bright enough to warrant the man squinting his eyes like he was staring into the sun—but one look at the stern set of Cameron’s jaw decided him against it, so he followed in silence instead.
They’d nearly reached the temple door when two men stepped in front of them, blocking their path. Falen saw the two newcomers and sighed. “Ah, Tashel, Sithern. I’d say it was a pleasure but … well, anyway, hello and goodbye!” He took another step then glanced back and saw that Cameron had stopped in front of the two men, and they were eyeing each other as if he didn’t even exist. Divines keep us, he thought, then went back to stand beside Cameron.
Tashel—the taller of the two—toyed with the white frill on one of the cuffs of the bright blue silken doublet he wore, picking a piece of non-existent dirt off and flinging it away. Dressed as he was, in the doublet and tight black trousers, with his dark hair oiled back, he looked more like a spoiled noble’s son than a Harvester. The only marks of his profession were the medallion he wore and two sickles sheathed at his belt, from the handles of which protruded two sharp, dagger’s points. “Well, well,” he said, his eyes locked on Cameron, “if it isn’t the Reaper.”
Falen winced, glancing at Cameron out of the corner of his eye in expectation, but if Cameron had picked up on the mockery in the man’s tone, he gave no sign. Instead he only nodded at the bright glow of the man’s eyes, “Tashel. Just returning from assignment?”
“So we are,” the man said, “the eighth of this year. A new record, if I’m not mistaken and with a month still left. Let’s see now ….” He paused, scratching at his chin, “Who was it that held it before … oh wait. It was you, wasn’t it? Well,” he grinned, “I’m sure sorry about that.”
“No need to be,” Cameron said. “You’ve done well.”
Tashel grinned, “Yes, I suppose I have, haven’t I?”
Just keep your mouth shut, Falen. Don’t say a word. “Yes, quite well,” he heard himself saying, while another part of him cursed inwardly, “You both have,” he nodded to Sithern before turning back to Tashel, “It’s just an unfortunate thing about the tunic is all.”
“Oh?” Tashel asked, raising an eyebrow, an amused expression on his face, “What’s that?”
Falen started as if surprised by the question, “Hmm? Oh, that it exists, that’s all. So kind of you, though, to buy it from the tailor. I’m sure he expressed much gratitude—in between his laughter—wait, I get it now. You lost a bet. That has to be it.”
Cameron barked a laugh, and Tashel’s smirk soured into an angry frown, “Careful, pup. Just because your master here,” he motioned at Cameron, “carries you through each assignment, doesn’t mean he’ll always be around.”
Falen shrugged, “There’s more to life than killing, Tashel.”
“Oh?” The dark haired man asked, the smirk coming back once more, “Such as?”
Falen considered for a moment, “For you? Unrequited love, perhaps? Or an early grave?”
Tashel turned back to Cameron, “You should ask the High Priests for a different Pairing. I suppose this one’s good enough at tying your shoes without having to bend over, but I can’t see that he would be much use with anything else. If not for him, I’ve no doubt that you would give Sithern and myself more of a challenge. Isn’t that right, Sithern?”
The thin, bald man grinned soundlessly, revealing a mouth full of teeth filed to a point, and in his eyes danced what Falen could only think of as madness.
Wouldn’t want to cross a man like that, not if you can help it, he told himself, nor Tashel for that matter. You scored a hit, now let it lie. But his mouth was open and words were coming out before he knew it, “As always, I am impressed by your dental work, Sithern. Though, I wonder what sedative did you take? Not liquor, surely, after the surgeon so clearly had more than his share.”
The bald man made a hissing sound that made the hair on the back of Falen’s neck stand up then turned to look at Tashel as if seeking permission.
Tashel’s grin was malevolent, like that of a child who finds his amusement in throwing rocks at stray dogs. “I think it might be time the toy soldier learned a lesson, don’t you, Sithern?”
Falen grunted in surprise as the bald man shot forward, surprisingly quick, but he made it no more than a step before Cameron moved in a blur. There was a loud crunch, and the man rebounded as if horse-kicked, falling on the ground with a howl that sounded more like an animal than a man.
Falen watched, his heart racing, while blood ran between the man’s hands as he attempted to cover his now-broken nose. Then he glanced at Cameron, shocked, as always, by how fast the man was. He knew it, of course, they’d been Paired since they were children, and the man had always been fast, but it still always surprised him when he saw it.
“Keep your dog on a leash, Tashel,” Cameron was saying, speaking loudly to be heard over the wounded man’s howls, “This city’s not kind to strays.”
Damn, but that was a good line, one Falen would love to have delivered. Only, maybe without having to break a man’s nose first.
Tashel was still smiling a smile that never touched his eyes, “You’re fast, Reaper. I’ll give you that. But, then, so am I. I wonder … are you as fast as they say?”
Cameron shrugged, “There’s an easy enough way to find out.”
The two men stared at each other for several seconds, one with glowing golden eyes, yet the other more disturbing for all that. Then Tashel shrugged, as if it made little difference, “Perhaps not today. After all, I’ve things to do. Soon though. Very soon.”
“You know where to find me,” Cameron said, and Falen breathed a sigh of relief inwardly.
They’d taken a few steps toward the door when Tashel spoke again, “
It must be hard for you.”
Divines, man just let it go, Falen thought, stopping as Cameron turned back.
Tashel gestured at the blank space on the wall of the temple where the portrait of Cameron’s father had once hung. “Passing that empty space almost every day, knowing what it represents, proof of your father’s failure, his treachery. It must be very hard for you.”
Cameron started forward, a low growl issuing from his throat, and Falen grabbed him by the arm. Cameron spun on him, a look in his eyes that promised murder, and Falen took an involuntary step back. “It’s what he wants,” Falen whispered. For a moment, the issue was still in question, then some of the hardness left Cameron’s eyes, and he nodded once.
Falen turned to Tashel, the man standing with his hands on the handles of his sickles, a hungry, almost feral grin on his face. “Is that what that space is for?” Falen asked, “And here I’d thought it was for you, Tashel. Only, I suspected the artist was having difficulty figuring out how to manage your head inside such a small area.”
Tashel’s eyes narrowed, “Someone should teach you to mind your tongue, imp.”
Falen smiled, “I’m not an easy person to teach; my father’s tutors would agree to as much.”
Tashel sneered and jerked his companion to his feet, “Stop your damned sniveling,” he said. Then he tugged him along as he marched further into the church.
“By the Divines, I hate that bastard,” he said after they were gone.
Cameron grunted, “Does good work though. With the rebellion going and assassins targeting Harvesters, we need him.”
Falen snorted, “Like a virgin needs a midwife.”
Cameron barked a laugh, “Anyway, thanks for stopping me.”
“Wish I hadn’t. The man could use a beating.”
“You shouldn’t antagonize him so much. He’s a bastard, but you know as well as I those sickles he carries aren’t for show.”
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