Reaper's Awakening

by Jacob Peppers

  “What then?” Memory asked.

  Cameron glanced around the ballroom at the dozens of couples dancing in the center, to the servants making their way along the sides of the ballroom with refreshments, to the others—like Memory and himself—who stood in small groups talking or partaking of the food and drink. He glanced up at the dais at the far end of the ballroom where the king sat on a throne, flanked by two guards, the older of whom Cameron recognized. It had been over a decade since Clause, a man who, in his prime, was said to have been the best swordsman in the entire country had come to the training grounds and taught the fledgling Harvesters what he could of swordsmanship. The man had been gruff and had shown little patience for laziness from the trainees, demanding much of them, but Cameron had also thought him a fair, just man.

  Clause had once been a legend, the man every training soldier wanted to become. He was older now, his once dark hair gone to gray, but he stood beside the throne with a quiet confidence matched by his gaze as he constantly searched for any threat. Cameron was glad that the man was on duty. If things went as he suspected they might, the old soldier might be needed before the night was through.

  He turned his attention to the king and saw that the man looked haggard, with deep, dark circles under his eyes, but he did not look especially scared. Cameron also noted, with a feeling of apprehension, that the chair beside the king—the one reserved for the princess—was conspicuously empty.

  “They’ll have to send someone to speak with the king,” he said, “to make the threat. We’ll have to wait for them.”

  “There’s no guarantee that whoever comes will have the necklace.”

  Cameron shrugged, “It’s the only chance we have. Besides, they’ll have to keep it close.”

  Just then, he noted a figure approaching the throne from the crowd of spectators. As the figure made its way out of the milling people, he caught a glimpse of who it was. Cameron’s muscles went rigid, and he only just managed to keep his hand from reaching for the handle of his blade, concealed behind the cloak he wore.

  “Cameron,” Memory said, noticing his reaction, “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s him.”

  Memory followed his gaze, “Is that….”

  “Marek,” He said, the word coming out in an angry hiss.

  The leader of the Harvesters approached the king’s platform, and the two guards stepped forward, their hands on the handles of their sheathed swords. They paused as Marek said something Cameron couldn’t hear. The king said something in reply, waiving a hand, and the guards stepped aside, allowing Marek to approach the throne.

  The commander of the Harvesters leaned close to the king, speaking into his ear, and Cameron knew the truth even before he saw the king’s face go a sickly pale. A flurry of expressions crossed the king’s face—shock, anger, and, finally, resignation. “It’s him,” Cameron said, “The bastard has it on him.”

  “Maybe,” Mira said, “but you can’t be sure. We have to be sure, Cameron.”

  “I’m sure,” he said, starting forward, his hand going toward his sword.

  Memory grabbed his hand, gripping it tightly with her own. “Even if you’re right,” she said, forcing him to turn and look at her, “and even if you manage to kill him and get the necklace before the guards kill you, they’ll kill you right after. They’re not going to wait to ask questions when a known traitor cuts down one of the most important people in the kingdom within feet of the king. And even if they did- wait to hear your explanation—which they won’t—do you think the Church would leave only a single man to guard the necklace?”

  Cameron glanced around at the dozens of guards positioned along the room’s walls and its exits and entrances, noted those individuals who he knew to be agents of the Church. And how many more were there that he wasn’t seeing? She was right, of course. He would die and the king—knowing no different—would raise the numbers of the Drawing anyway. Still, he hesitated, the logic of her words warring with the rage roiling inside of him, demanding release and, for several long seconds, the matter remained in question. Then, finally, feeling somehow like a traitor to his father and mother, to Falen, he let his hand drop reluctantly to his side. “What then?” He said, “This is our only chance. If we let him leave with the necklace—”

  “We won’t,” Memory said, smiling as she noted Marek walking away from the king, making his way through the crowd of dancing nobles. “And correct me if I’m wrong—I believe you owe me a dance.”

  Cameron followed her gaze then shrugged, a small smile on his face, “With that dress? How could I refuse?”

  Memory took his offered arm and followed him onto the dance floor to a spot where Marek’s path would intersect with them in a minute or two. Then Cameron turned, swept her into his arms, and they danced.

  Memory felt her face flush as they moved across the floor. Cameron danced with the almost preternatural grace she’d seen when he fought, seeming to glide along the floor without ever taking a step. At first, it was all she could do to keep up but soon she stopped thinking about where each foot went. She stopped worrying about tripping and making a fool of herself—not to mention getting them both killed. And they danced.

  His eyes never left hers and, staring into those eyes, neither the vibrant green or burnished gold she’d seen before, but a soft, sparkling hazel—and just when had they changed colors?—feeling the muscle, the strength of him beneath his tunic, she realized that for the first time she could remember, she felt safe.

  Never mind that they were being hunted by assassin bogeymen out of a children’s story, never mind that they were surrounded by people who would kill them in an instant if they discovered who they were. For a moment, she forgot about all of it, all of her fear, all of her responsibilities. In that instant she felt none of those things—she felt only safe. And they danced.

  “Cameron—” she began, wanting to tell him that, no matter what happened, she was glad that she had met him, glad for this moment, but before she could he leaned into her. Their lips met, and she decided that there was no need.

  She didn’t know how long the kiss went on—it could have been a second or an eternity. She only knew that, when it ended, and he pulled away, she immediately missed the feel of his lips on hers, the feel of him against her, warm and strong. She met his eyes then, her breath coming fast, and saw a hunger dancing in them, a need that scared her because it matched the hunger she felt in herself.

  He opened his mouth to speak, and she found herself at once afraid and excited by what he might say. Would he tell her it was a mistake? Would he tell her, as she had nearly told him, that it was worth it? That no matter what, it had all been worth it for this moment, this crystallized instant in time. Instead, he said only, “Spin.” Her mind was still struggling to process that unexpected word when she realized she was spinning, the hem of her blue silk dress flashing around her like a blue wind.

  Cameron stepped gracefully beside her and took her hand, guiding it so that their arms were partially outstretched between them. It brought back a memory, painful and sweet at once, of her childhood. She and Isabelle had snuck out of their house while their parents slept and went to a mummer’s show held in the town square. Her parents said they were no place for kids—such shows—and perhaps they’d been right, for there was much blood—symbolized by crimson fabric that spilled out of the actors as they were slain. There were also scenes of feigned intimacy so close to the real thing despite the clothes the actors and actresses wore as to be almost the same. And, of course, there was the reason they’d come—the dancing. She remembered her sister holding her arms the way Cameron was holding them now, remembered them both laughing as their feet fumbled at the unfamiliar steps.

  As she came out of the spin, Cameron was beside her again, his eyes staring over her shoulder, and as she wiped a hand at the tears in her eyes she realized he was watching Marek’s progress. “Are you ready?” He asked, meeting her eyes. She wanted to say something, to tell
him how she felt, but the words would not come, so she took a deep breath and nodded instead.

  Then she was spinning again, the world coming at her in flashes of color and faces. And there. A glimpse of the familiar uniform, a foot away from her, no more, gone in another instant, spinning past, and she altered her rotation minutely, imperceptibly.

  Her hand flashed out even as her side bumped into the man, her fingers questing in his tunic—the way she’d done so many times before. She brushed something light and metallic. A chain, she had time to think, a necklace’s chain, then a hand closed around her wrist with a grip like iron, and she found that she could not pull away. She was jerked around and brought face to face with the leader of the Harvesters, his other hand going to her waist as if they were dancing. Several people nearby clapped and whistled at the display.

  “My, my,” the older man said, grinning, “but you are a pretty thing, aren’t you, sweet one?” He leaned close to her, his grip on her hand tightening, and it was all she could do to keep from crying out. “Or should I call you Memory?”

  “Go to the Pit,” she spat. Her free hand darted for the knife she’d secreted against her leg, and his fingers dug into her wrist harder. Bone grinded against bone, and she gasped in pain.

  “Go for the knife again,” he said, leaning close, “and I’ll rip your arm off and let my men have their way with you while your new man watches.”

  Memory glanced back and saw Cameron standing several feet away. Rage boiled in his gaze, a fury so intense that his eyes seemed to blaze. But there was something else in that gaze too, something she hadn’t seen in the Harvester’s eyes before. Fear.

  “Funny,” Marek said, low enough so that only Cameron and Memory could hear him, “I distinctly remember killing you. And your eyes ….” He frowned, something in his voice uncertain. Then he shrugged, “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  “What do you want?” Cameron said. His voice was low, barely loud enough to hear at all even from this close, but Memory could hear the emotion in it.

  “What do I want?” Marek asked as if it should be obvious, “well, I want to hear the king’s speech, of course.”

  As if on cue, a man dressed in the king’s livery stepped onto the dais and rapped his scepter on the ground with three loud thumps. The music came to an abrupt halt, and the dancers all stopped, turning to look at the platform. “My people,” the crier said, his voice a deep baritone that carried to all ends of the room, “Welcome to this season’s Midyear Ball, and may the blessing of the Divines be upon you all. I present to you King Arafel Parsinian, third of his name, Keeper of the Ether, Guardian and Protector of Anamandia and all its peoples, and the Chosen vessel of the Divines.”

  Memory watched numbly as the king rose and took the orator’s place at the dais to the roaring cheers and applause of those present. If the king heard these, he gave no sign, and Memory thought she’d never saw a man look so weary, so full of despair. We’re too late, she thought desperately. Pit take it, we’re too late.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Leandria heard the crier’s speech and turned to look down from her spot at the balcony as her father stepped forward. It’s too early for father to give his speech, she thought, coughing into her hand. She noticed flecks of what could only be blood as her hand came away, and she swallowed, fighting back another cough. She noted the look on her father’s face, like that of a beaten, caged animal, and knew immediately that something was wrong. The Church has gotten to him somehow, she thought, anger and despair welling up in her in equal measure.

  She glanced around again, looking for Quintin. She’d been sure she’d seen him come up here, but the lights of the ballroom did little to chase away the balcony’s shadows. She wanted him with her then, badly. Quintin would know what to do—he always seemed to know what to do.

  “My people,” King Parsinian said, his voice cutting effortlessly through the ballroom, and Leandria wondered if anyone else could hear the resignation, the regret it held, “I welcome you to my home on this Midyear.” Judging by the shouts and cheers, those gathered either did not make out the emotion in her father’s tone, or they chose to ignore it. He waited for them to finish before continuing, “The Divines have blessed us in giving us another year free of the travails and travesties brought on during the Fulmination, so many years ago.”

  Another round of applause, louder than the first. “My people,” he said, then hesitated, glancing around himself like a man who has found himself in a dream he’s desperate to wake up from. “My people,” he said, again, his voice clearer this time, “the Divines have blessed us and, in their mercy, have kept us safe from the plagues that once befell us. For when I attend the Ether, it is they who guide my hand, and when each life is sacrificed for the Drawing it is they who reward that sacrifice.

  No, Leandria thought desperately, please, no. “It is not an easy thing we do, I know, giving over our loved ones, our friends and family, so that the rest of us may live. Perhaps, some of you here have lost those you cared about. The Drawing is necessary, but that does not make it any less painful for those of us left behind. Yet understand that it is not my will nor,” he hesitated his face screwing up as if he’d swallowed something foul before continuing, “nor the will of the Church, but that of the Divines themselves. And so, it is with a heavy heart that I—”

  “Excuse me, your Majesty, sir.”

  Leandria watched in surprise as a man stepped out of the crowd. The two guards at the dais stepped forward, their hands on their blades, glancing at the king as if in question. Her father held up a hand, forestalling them, before looking back to the man who had spoken. “Sir, if you’ve some grievance or issue, I would be pleased to hear it, but now is not the time for—”

  “Forgive me, sire, but I think maybe you’ll want to hear this.” The king’s guards bristled, drawing their blades as the man stepped forward. The man gave no sign of noticing. Instead, he knelt and waited for the king to motion for him to rise. When her father did, the man stood, rubbing at his chin, an embarrassed expression on his face.

  “Please,” her father said, “speak.”

  The man shrugged, scratching at his face, “Well, your Majesty,” he said, reaching into his tunic and withdrawing a familiar gold chain, “I found this, you see. And I thought—I suppose maybe I could be mistaken—wouldn’t be the first time, the Divines know, but I thought as I remembered seeing the fair princess, your daughter, wearing it upon a time. Wondered if maybe she hadn’t lost it.”

  Several people in the crowd laughed in nervous disbelief, that a man should interrupt the king over a trinket. For her part, Leandria stared at the necklace dangling from the man’s hand—her mother’s necklace—in shock, feeling like a ship being tossed and shaken at sea. She’d given that necklace to Quintin. Hadn’t she? Then why … the strength left her legs in a rush, and she stumbled, barely catching herself on the balcony’s railing. Her thoughts felt muddled, foggy, but yes, of course she’d given the necklace to Quintin. To remember her by. She glanced back at her father, expecting him to be annoyed, maybe even angry that the man should interrupt his speech for something that could have waited until after.

  But instead of looking angry or impatient, her father looked relieved. No, that wasn’t quite right. He looked saved, like a man who is waiting for the executioner’s axe to fall only to be given a full pardon at the last minute. And, it might have been a trick of the distance and the lights, but she thought she could see tears winding their way down his cheek.

  “Ah, sir,” the king said, glancing at someone in the crowd that Leandria couldn’t make out through the press of people, “I had thought the necklace lost.” He strode across the platform and accepted the offered necklace with a degree of reverence typically reserved for holy relics. “I am forever in your debt for the return of my daughter’s … property, good sir. How can I ever repay you?”

  The man looked more uncomfortable than ever, shifting from food to foot, “Well uh … I
don’t need nothin’ sire, I don’t guess. Exceptin … maybe if you were to see your way clear of not chopping my head off … I think that’d be just about all I could want.”

  Her father laughed then, a loud, booming laugh more rich and true than any she’d heard him utter in a very long time. Then he clapped the man on the shoulder, “Consider it done, sir, but I hope that you will not object if I reward you with a bit more than that for the return of my daughter’s necklace.”

  The man opened his mouth to answer but, just then, a loud, ear-piercing whistle resonated through the chamber. The sound seemed to lance through her head, and Leandria cried out, staggering against the railing. Suddenly, strong hands were grabbing her by the arms. She turned, her head spinning, to look into the eyes of the man holding her and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Quintin.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Cameron watched in shock and relief as Nicks withdrew the necklace from his pocket, offering it to the king. Just how in the name of the Divines? Then, deciding it didn’t matter, he turned. Marek was staring at him, a look of uncertainty on his normally self-assured face. Then Marek gave Memory a hard push, throwing her into the crowd.

  Cameron met the man’s gaze, and Marek began to back away, into the crowd. Cameron grinned, loosening his sword in its scabbard and starting forward. Marek’s eyes widened, and he brought his thumb and forefinger to his lips and blew. A painfully loud whistle—one all Harvesters and trainees knew all too well—pierced the air. “Kill them,” Marek yelled, seemingly to no one in particular, “Kill them all and capture the king.” Then he turned and began shoving his way through the crowd.