Reaper's Awakening

by Jacob Peppers

  He grunted, “Bullshit. If you’re going to lie, at least make it plausible. You’re saying what, exactly? That the Church is sacrificing people for nothing? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Not for nothing,” she said. “Tell me this. How many new born babies does the Church check for signs of the mutations?”

  “Divines, woman, they check every child born in the city. Everyone knows that.”

  Memory nodded, “And how many times have you been present during this check?”

  Cameron sighed. One of the other jobs of Harvesters—aside from performing the rites—was escorting Priests to the family of any new born baby in the city to test them for mutations. The Church meant the family no harm, of course, and was only doing what it needed for the city to be safe, but an explanation often wasn’t enough to stop an enraged father or a terrified mother from doing something stupid. “I don’t know. A hundred? More? What’s your point?”

  “And how many children have the priests found with the sickness?” She raised a hand to forestall him from speaking, “I don’t mean ones that you’ve heard of, I don’t mean any included in the official reports. I mean how many have you seen. Personally.”

  He hesitated, frowning. After a moment, he sighed, “It doesn’t mean anything. There are a lot of Harvesters and a lot of babies. I’ve only attended a fraction of the births.”

  Memory raised an eyebrow, “A fraction that, surprisingly, has all been healthy? Isn’t that curious considering that, according to the Church, the mutations are growing worse every year?”

  He considered that for a moment, but then he shook his head again, “No. It’s maybe unusual sure but it doesn’t mean anything. And what would it mean? That the Church is sacrificing people just for the fun of it? You’re gonna have to do better than that, lady.”

  “No, not for the fun of it. That’s not what I believe, nor is it what your father believed. Many—including your father—thought that the Church was using the essence for its own purposes, its own … experiments.”

  “Experiments?”

  Memory shrugged, “No one knows for sure. It’s been theorized that, perhaps, the leaders of the Church have somehow found a way to harness the essences and lengthen their own life spans.”

  Cameron snorted, “Sure, I’ve heard the talk. Priests making themselves immortal, making men into monsters who can’t feel pain, that sort of thing. Shit, lady, aren’t you a little too old for fairy tales?”

  Memory bit back a retort and took a deep breath. “The truth is, no one knows what they’re doing and that’s perhaps the most worrying thing of all. Of course they wouldn’t be able to make themselves live forever but it stands to reason that if we can take someone’s very life essence and use it to heal the Ether surely there are other things they can do with it. Think on it. The Church’s own histories—those facts you are so ready to believe—claim that Animandus Parsinian himself lived to be a hundred and sixty years old.”

  “So maybe they got his age wrong or maybe he was just long-lived. Who cares? I’ve heard all of these arguments before.”

  “Why do you refuse to see what’s right in front of you?” She snapped, her own frustration rising to the surface. “Even your own father believed what I’m telling you.”

  Anger, hot and wild, flashed in his eyes, and she found herself taking an involuntary step back. “My father was insane,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “You’re wrong. Your father was a hero. He realized what the Church was doing and tried to stop them. He didn’t want power or money; he just wanted to live in a world where people didn’t have to worry about getting jerked out of their homes and killed in the name of some High Priests who can’t even be bothered to get the blood on their own hands. Your father didn’t kill your mother, Cameron. The Church did.”

  Cameron barked a harsh, humorless laugh, “You’d act as if you know everything. But unless I’m way off, you weren’t even born yet when any of it happened. How in the Pit would you know one way or the other?”

  “It’s amazing the kinds of things you can learn once you stop taking anything you’re told as the truth. I mean think, Cameron. Some part of you knows something is wrong; that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t speak for several seconds, and she had a moment to think that maybe she’d made him understand, that maybe he’d listen. Then that hard, coldness came back into his golden, alien eyes. “No.” He said, “you’d tell me whatever lies you saw fit to get what you want. I won’t be your puppet.”

  Memory sighed, feeling her hope die. “And so you’ll be theirs.”

  “Enough of this shit,” Harmen shouted, drawing the knife from his tunic once more and rushing forward.

  Memory screamed for him to stop, but if he heard, he gave no sign. He charged toward the Harvester, his lips peeled back against his teeth, a sound somewhere between a hiss and a growl issuing from his throat. Memory started forward, as did Nicks and Blinks, but they’d hardly taken more than a step when Harmen was on the bound man, swinging his knife in a vicious arc aimed at the Harvester’s throat.

  Memory watched, helpless, expecting at any moment to see the Harvester’s blood flying from his throat in a fountain of crimson. Instead, the Harvester’s feet jerked out in front of him, against the floor, causing him and the chair he was sitting in to slide backward so that the blade’s edge came within inches of his throat but did not touch him. Then, without missing a beat, his legs lashed out again, catching Harmen in the stomach. The big man’s breath was knocked from him by the unexpected blow, and he fell to his knees, gasping.

  In another moment, Cameron was out of his chair, the ropes that had held him falling into a loose pile on the floor. The Harvester let out a growl of his own, and his fist lashed out so fast that it was nearly a blur, striking the bigger man in the temple. Harmen let out a groan and crumpled to the ground in a senseless heap. Cameron jerked the knife from the man’s slack fingers and was raising the blade when Memory caught his hand. “No!”

  He spun on her, his eyes wild, a silent snarl on his face, and Memory let out a gasp as the blade shot to her throat. The Harvester stared at her for several seconds then, slowly, the wildness left his eyes, and he let the knife drop to the ground beside the unconscious Harmen. “I’ll give you one week,” he said, his voice cold and hard as stone, “Then you’d best have your people out of here. I will come back and when I do, I won’t be alone. Am I clear?”

  Memory stared at him, at first unable to speak. For a moment, it had seemed as if the man’s eyes had glowed—no, that wasn’t right. Harvester’s eyes glowed when they were filled with essence, and she knew well that this man was not. Besides, the light in his eyes hadn’t glowed but had blazed, like two furious suns. She had to have imagined it. “Y-yes,” she managed, breathless with shock and fear. And how did he get free of his bonds?

  The Harvester stared at her for what felt like eternity then finally he nodded. He glanced at Nicks and Blinks whose wide-eyed stares mimicked Memory’s own. “Don’t worry, boys. I’ll see myself out.” And with that, he turned, grabbed his sword from where it lay, and stalked out of the chamber.

  “That’s … impossible,” Nicks said once he was gone, “I tied the knots myself. There’s no way he could have gotten out.”

  “Never mind that,” Memory said, “Nicks, go and tell the others to get ready. In three days, we leave.”

  “But … where will we go?” Blinks said, his face screwed up with childlike uncertainty.

  Memory looked at the big man, at once one of the most imposing and most innocent people she’d ever known. She wished she could say something to give him comfort, but she found that she had no comfort to give. She glanced to Harmen’s unconscious form and felt a shiver of fear crawl up her spine, “I … I don’t know.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Cameron walked down one of the Cheapside’s side alleys, rubbing at his wrists where the ropes had scraped them raw. He glanced around, making sure he wasn
’t being followed, either by any of Memory’s people or one of the muggers and opportunists so common to the poor quarter. Then, satisfied that he was alone, he gritted his teeth and jerked his left thumb back into its socket with an audible pop. He grunted as the pain, fresh and hot and nauseating, rushed through him, remembering how he and Falen had laughed when, as children, one of their Harvester trainers had taught them how to escape from bonds. Of course, he didn’t remember it hurting quite as much.

  Memories of his training made him think, again, of the woman, her blue eyes bright with passion and earnestness as she’d spoke. His father not a traitor at all but a hero, a man who’d sacrificed everything for what he believed to be right. A nice story … but that didn’t’ make it true.

  “Cameron.”

  Cameron whipped around, his hand going for his sword, and was surprised to see Falen walking toward him, a nervous smile on his face. “Falen?” He asked, surprised, “What in the name of the Divines are you doing here?”

  Falen glanced around the alley—obviously anxious—then stepped closer, “I was coming to apologize, and I saw you leave your house. I uh …” he gave a sheepish look, running a hand over his bald head, “well, I guess I sort of followed you. I followed you to the inn too, but uh … well, those two men sure were paranoid huh? Checked their trail so much I’d be shocked if they don’t have whiplash in the morning. Anyway—”

  “Wait,” Cameron said, eyeing him closely, “You came to apologize?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “We should really be leaving,” Falen said, “Those that live here are not friends of the Church or of Harvesters and—”

  “Falen,” Cameron growled, grabbing the smaller man by the shoulder and forcing him to face him, “Why didn’t you apologize?”

  Falen sighed, “Well, I was going to, truly, it’s just that … well, I was standing outside of your house, trying to think of what to say, when I saw High Priest Perdeus leave. He looked … upset.”

  Cameron groaned, and there it was. He had seen all of it or enough as to make no difference. Falen was far from a fool—he would have put together Cameron’s activities without much difficulty. And with that thought the small man’s nervousness took on a new look. Cameron cursed, scanning the street, “Where are they, Falen?”

  The dark-skinned man blinked, “They?”

  Cameron growled, jerking the man forward by the front of his shirt, “How much time do I have? How many are coming?”

  “Cameron,” the smaller man sputtered, his eyes wide, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Wait a minute—do you mean Harvesters? Divines, Cameron, do you think I’d betray you just like that? And even if I did, do you think I’d be stupid enough to come within reach of you after doing it?”

  Cameron studied his partner for several seconds before finally releasing him. He had a point—besides, Cameron had known Falen since they were children and could always tell when he was lying, “You haven’t told.”

  “Of course not,” Falen said, a hurt expression on his face as he straightened his tunic.

  “Why?”

  Falen gave him an incredulous look, “You can’t be serious.”

  “It’s your duty,” Cameron said, “If you suspect another Harvester of treachery, it’s your duty to report it.”

  Falen snorted, “Sure it is. And it’s a wife’s duty to be loyal to her husband, and it’s a barkeeper’s duty to serve un-watered ale.” He shrugged, “Duty’s not the only thing in life.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell.”

  Falen looked at him as if he was a fool, “You’re my friend, Cameron.”

  As if that explained everything. And, after a moment, Cameron realized that, for Falen at least, it did. He found himself thinking of one of Perdeus’s random lectures, where the High Priest had said that it was easy to predict how a man would act, how he would think. You need only find what the priest called his “altars.” Which, in essence, were the ideals which a man placed value in, those things for which he would sacrifice everything. Cameron had not fully understood it then, but he thought that now he might. “Thank you, Falen,” he said, feeling wretched and ashamed of his mistrust, “and it is I who should apologize to you.”

  Falen shrugged this off, obviously uncomfortable, “Anyway, do you want to share the details? Though,” he said, glancing at Cameron’s hand where his thumb was already beginning to swell, “I suspect the meeting didn’t go as well as it might have.”

  Cameron sighed, “I spoke with Memory.”

  “And?”

  He shrugged, “And it was a waste of time. Those people are living in a fantasy, one in which my father wasn’t a traitor at all but a hero and the Church is full of evil bogeymen who spend their times hiding in closets and stealing children and Divines know what else.”

  Falen nodded slowly, “And we, of course don’t believe them … do we?”

  Cameron grunted, “And get this, my father didn’t kill my mother. No, that was the Church too, covering up the fact that everything’s as right as rain, but they just keep on performing the rites and sacrificing people because they think it’s fun.”

  “So,” Falen said, hesitant, “just a waste of time then. Nothing to any of it.”

  “Right.”

  “You mean to tell the Church then? About where they are?”

  Cameron met the smaller man’s eyes, “I told her I’d give them a week, and I will. After that … well, they might be fools but a fool with a blade can still cut, if you let him close enough. I’ll do what I have to.”

  “Of course,” his friend said, “just like we always have.”

  Something in Falen’s voice struck Cameron as strange, and he studied the man for several seconds before continuing, “Right. I guess in Memory’s fantasy Marek killed my mother.” He barked a harsh laugh, “After all, he was the first one to come in the door—he’s told me so often enough.”

  Falen paused for a moment, then, “Yeah. Sounds like Memory has some strange ideas, eh? Anyway, what do you plan on doing about Perdeus?”

  Cameron felt his heart drop at the question. Up until now, he hadn’t thought of what he’d do about the High Priest. It was clear, now, that the man was working with the rebellion. But why? Cameron had known him long enough to know the priest was no fool to be led around by make believe stories. Still, he supposed, everyone could be tricked or could trick themselves. And Perdeus, for all his wisdom, must surely have his own reasons, his own altars. “I … don’t know,” he answered honestly.

  The right thing, the dutiful thing, would of course be to turn him over to the Church. After all, a man in such a high position of power could do much harm to the Church and its efforts, but Cameron found that the thought of turning the High Priest over, of maybe standing by as he was tortured and forced to answer questions, made him sick. If Marek had been like a father to him, then Perdeus had been a wise, kindly uncle. He’d been Cameron’s mentor for years, his teacher and his friend. Could he really turn him in, knowing what would happen? He’d been present for such questioning before—it was not pleasant and the one being asked did not survive it. “I don’t know,” he said again.

  Someone screamed in the distance, whether in fear or in pain Cameron didn’t know, but the sound was enough to shake him from his thoughts and remind him that they were standing in the most dangerous part of the city, a place known for its hate of Harvesters. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go.”

  They made their way silently through the streets, both lost in their own thoughts. The few people they passed shot hard, sullen glances in their direction but luckily no more than that, and soon they found themselves outside of Cameron’s home. He was opening the door when Falen spoke, “Cameron.”

  Cameron wanted nothing more than to go upstairs, lie in his bed, and let all of his worries be swallowed by sweet oblivion, but something in his friend’s voice made him turn, “Yes?”

&nbs
p; “Have you ever wondered what you would do? I mean, if Memory was right?”

  “You mean if my father really was a hero? If the Church really did betray him and Marek was behind my parents’ death?”

  Falen nodded.

  “I’d kill him. Goodnight, Falen.”

  “Good night, Cameron.”

  Cameron studied his friend for a moment, standing in the poor light of the moon, the sadness in his eyes looking unusual on his normally joking, sardonic face. Then with a nod, Cameron closed the door and went inside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I thought I’d find you here.”

  Leandria looked up from the flower she was twirling in her hands to find her father standing over her. In his youth, King Arafel had been a large man, full of life and vigor, a man of action. But standing as he was in the secluded garden, the poor light of the lantern playing across his pale features, he seemed shrunken, old, his shoulders bent beneath a weight too great for one man to bear. “Father,” she said, her smile feeling forced.

  If her father noticed, he gave no sign. “May I sit with you?” He asked, and she noted that even his voice sounded exhausted.

  “Of course,” Leandria said, gesturing to an empty spot on the stone bench.

  Her father half sat, half slumped onto the bench, gazing at the small fountain. “Your mother used to come here.”

  Leandria nodded. She’d known, of course, and she understood why her mother had so often sought refuge here, as she herself did. Unlike the public Palace gardens, there was only one entrance to these, and it lacked the ostentatious show of wealth, the statues of bronze and gold, or the priceless hand-crafted lanterns and fountains that adorned the main gardens. It was a small place, with only the bench and plain looking fountain for ornamentation. Unlike the main gardens, no servant or worker tended these gardens. Leandria had been told that when her mother as live, she’d spent much of her time seeing to the maintenance of the small garden herself, but since her death, it had fallen into disrepair. Plants that had once been pruned and cared for now grew in wild, unruly patches, and the fountain itself was covered in choking vines.