Lady of Drith

by Chad Huskins

  Drea was no warrior, she didn’t know how to mount a proper defense or how to fight. She waved the Hand in the Darkness all around her, slashing at air, hoping it would fend off the many attacks. Ziir circled around her, his tentacles looking for a safe path to her neck. One of them came near her feet. She spotted it just in time and impaled it on the ground with her blade. The tentacle burst into flame and Ziir squealed as the fire traveled up the tentacle and sent part of his face ablaze.

  In his throes of agony, the vehl slapped her across the chest with one of his flailing tentacles, knocking the wind out of her and sending her to the ground. When she landed, Drea’s spine smacked up against something hard.

  She rolled over, half in a daze, feeling her spine…and that’s when she felt the handle. It was a pistol, all right. One of Lady Blackveil’s, most likely. She probably dropped it when my new-sisters attacked her.

  Ziir swirled around her like formless smoke, gauging her, and then pounced on her. Without thinking, Drea pulled the weapon out and pulled the trigger. The pistol boomed once, the bullet tore through Ziir’s center, where it hatched a brilliant light that shattered the air.

  Drea felt a hot wind on her face, and for a moment she was sure she’d gone unconscious from the sheer forces being released from whatever alchemical mix had been inside Blackveil’s pistol chamber. The air became electric, and several chains of lightning rippled across the ground, struck her, and singed her flesh.

  Drea screamed, blacked out again.

  Her head felt light.

  She felt fingers crawling all over her…the fingers of a demon!

  Reflexively she slashed out. Thankful the Hand in the Darkness was still in her hand. The world had gone dark. She blinked through smoke, her eyes watering at the acrid stench of burning flesh. She saw a dark shape on the ground in front of her, someone crawling towards her…

  Ziir. He’d been blown into pieces, but his molten eyes were still burning, his mind was still bent on destroying her for what she had done to his master.

  Drea pointed Blackveil’s pistol at the demon. Squeezed the trigger. Empty. She’d spent the last shell. Drea tried to crawl away but her mind and body had been shocked by the explosion. She tried standing. Stumbled. Fell.

  Ziir’s hand reached her leg. His other hand pinned her head down. She could feel his hot breath on her face. She smelled brimstone. His mouth opened to devour her.

  Drea stabbed one last time at the demon’s face, and watched as the Hand in the Darkness split Ziir’s face in two. Molten blood fell out of his face and onto the side of her head, burning her right ear. Ziir pushed himself off of her, shrunk away into the smoke all around, and summarily vanished.

  Tears fell from Drea’s face. The pain was the most intense of her life. She’d never even dreamt life could be this miserable. It wasn’t just the physical pain—she also recalled, with blinding rage, the look on Uncle Halorax’s face as he died…

  Forcing herself to roll over on her chest, Drea pushed herself up to her knees. She cupped her ear, which was still burning from the demon’s blood. Parts of her legs had been burned from the ejaculated lightning.

  She staggered around, blinking dumbly, listening to the cries of the terrified audience. She didn’t know where she was…

  Then she heard Lady Blackveil’s screams.

  Drea turned and found that both Vaedris and Daedoris were still battling Blackveil, and winning. They poured lightning and fire from their fingertips and Blackveil writhed in pain. She had some sort of talisman in her hand, trying to fend off her killers, but it seemed to be doing little good.

  Their focus was on Blackveil. The rest of the arena was chaos. Drea saw her opportunity. She gripped the Hand in the Darkness tight.

  Her skin burning, Drea stepped up behind Vaedris, watching her new-sister fry Lady Blackveil alive with dreamlike detachment.

  Am I going to do this? Am I a killer?

  Drea talked herself out of it. She was backing away, alarmed and ashamed of her own murderous thoughts.

  Suddenly, a flash of memory came to her. The sight of her mother’s dead face in front of the fireplace. Her father’s last words…

  And the pain of her own ear and flesh. Her hate for the Syphenus and their ways boiled over her.

  Then, all at once, Vaedris turned. She seemed to have just sensed Drea’s presence. Her face was a mask of rage. She turned towards Drea, her hands brewing more lightning. Murder was in her eyes.

  Then, in one motion, Drea reached out to grab hold of Vaedris’s hair. She pulled her new-sister’s head back, gripped the Hand in the Darkness tight, and ran it it through Vaedris’s stomach.

  : Steam and Fles h:

  The lightning ceased. Vaedris gave out a little gasp. She stared up at the three sister moons. Her hands reached back at Drea, clawing impotently at her face. Then, Vaedris reached out to the sky, as if beseeching the gods for deliverance.

  “Not like this,” she whispered, falling slowly to her knees. “Not…like…”

  Drea withdrew the blade. Vaedris landed beside her uncle, who was still sprouting a spiky tree from his midsection. The Hand in the Darkness glowed bright blue in Drea’s hand, and Vaedris’s blood sizzled on its blade.

  “Noooooooooooooo!” Daedoris screamed. She’d ceased her fiery assault on Lady Blackveil, and now turned to focus her full might on Drea. Her hands snapped out in front of her. Balls of flame were conjured in her palms. Drea crouched, ready to find cover.

  But just as Daedoris fired, a massive iron golem stepped in front of Drea, blocking the wall of flame that Daedoris spat at her.

  Ssssssssssssssss-chhhhuuuuuuuuu, Lord Hiss breathed.

  “Daughter of House Syphen,” he said, stepping slowly towards her. “My name is Lord Hiss. Kill me, I beg you.”

  Daedoris ceased her flames, and the dark vehl that had its threads woven into Daedoris backed away, as if it knew the iron-suited man by reputation. Perhaps it did.

  On the ground, Lady Blackveil was moaning. Almost all her clothes had been burned away, pieces of it were now seared into her flesh. But she growled against the pain, forcing herself to stand, albeit slowly. Her hair was mostly burned away, her flesh reddened and split in places. She still had her pistol in hand, though, and her eyes twinkled in the moonslight. Drea saw vengeance written there. Vengeance and dark glee.

  Around the arena, the lights were starting to flicker back on, but they remained dim. Drea could see people running for their lives, terrified by the display of power they had seen. The arena was for beasts, not for fell Arcana.

  Lord Hiss took another step towards Daedoris, and both she and the vehl backed away. Another step, and the vehl fled into the sky. Another step, and Daedoris turned and ran away.

  Drea stood there, panting and looking at the bloody blade in her hand. The blue darklight was fading, for the stadium wasn’t so dark anymore. The Hand in the Darkness’s power dwindled when there was too much light, just as the Host had promised.

  Drea stared at the blood on the blade, and the blood on her hands. She looked down at the lifeless body of Vaedris Syphen. There was no proof she’d had anything to do with the Hidden Door or her uncle’s conspiracy, and yet Drea knew—she knew—that once Vaedris had finished killing Lady Blackveil, she would have killed her next. Just moments before, Vaedris had condoned Drea’s execution. She’d demanded it.

  She might’ve been misled. She might not have fully understood what all was going on, that Phaedos Syphen was a monster that manipulated us all. I might’ve killed out of self-defense, but that doesn’t mean I killed a guilty person.

  There was guilt in her. It was beneath the surface, buried deep, but she knew it would come out later.

  I chose out of anger. I chose out of haste. Just like on the Street of Wares.

  And in her heart, Drea knew the truth.

  I chose wrong.

  Drea looked around at the chaos she’d helped create. Men and women were shoving each other to the side, desperate to fl
ee the arena.

  Lord Hiss turned to her, and said, “You promised to kill me if you had the chance. You gave me your word.”

  Drea nodded numbly, and turned away. She walked over bloody sand and stepped around many corpses to reach Halorax. She knelt by the man’s side, and bent to look into his eyes. There appeared to be embers of life left in them, but Drea had seen that glassy-eyed look before. Dead was dead, and there was no coming back.

  No coming back for any of us, she thought. She gave him a kiss, then closed his eyes forever. She looked up at the stars and the moons, wondering what any of it meant.

  I chose wrong, Drea thought again. I had so many choices along the way. Perhaps some were right, but still…

  Drea could’ve run. At any point, she and Thryis could’ve run away, probably brought Thryis’s brother and father with them. Or they could’ve just not heeded Lady Blackveil’s summons to meet. Drea could’ve just allowed herself to be a broodmare, allowed her assets to be handed over to the Syphenus. Would it have been so bad?

  But then, Halorax would still be dead. Or maybe not. Maybe if I hadn’t given Lord Syphen reason to worry about my loyalty…

  Like a game of seshqii. A bevy of choices, a myriad of ways the game could have ended. And the players were left forever wtith the question, How might it have gone better, if I had done just one thing differently?

  All around the arena, electric globes switched back on. A shadow fell over Drea, a long one, a shambling one. Drea looked over her shoulder, and saw Lady Blackveil approaching.

  “It’s not…your fault,” the Lady wheezed. “You shouldn’t…blame yourself.”

  Drea stood to her feet. “Why didn’t you act?”

  The Lady shook her head. “Don’t start the game of second guessing—”

  “You could’ve acted at any time!” Drea shouted, stepping towards her, only just now realizing she still had the Hand in the Darkness still clenched in her hand. “You could’ve saved him!”

  “I was waiting…for the right moment,” she panted. “The sisters…I knew they were all gifted…and I was waiting to see what Daedron would…would…”

  She broke off in a fit of coughing, and collapsed to one knee. Drea didn’t offer to help her.

  “I needed to see if he was genuine, or if he and his uncle were just setting me up for a trap. But before I knew it, you’d…you’d gone to save your friend, and then you tried to…to kill Lord Syphen. Things happened quickly. You were about to die. The lights went out. It was now or never. I had to act.”

  Drea started to say something, but just then she heard whistles. Familiar, high-pitched whistles. And when she turned to find their source, she saw a cadre of Rain Guards running across the field at her.

  “DREA KALDER!” bellowed the Prefect out front, pistol in hand. “IN THE NAME OF THE TRIUMVERATE AND OUR BELOVED DRITH, LIE DOWN AND SUBMIT! YOU ARE HEREBY UNDER ARREST FOR—”

  He was cut off by Lord Hiss, who stepped in front of Drea. “Rain Guards of Drith, my name is Lord Hiss. Kill me, I beg you.”

  Everyone knew what that meant. The Rain Guards came to an abrupt halt, and aimed their pistols, swords and spears at him, while those with shields moved in front to form a wall of protection.

  “LORD HISS!” the Prefect cried. “YOU ARE ORDERED TO STAND DOWN!”

  “You can ask the sun not to rise,” he replied. “See where that gets you.”

  Drea stood behind the hissing golem, feeling the heat rolling off his armor. She peered through his clouds of steam to look at the Rain Guards, who looked uncertain of themselves.

  Then, Lady Blackveil stepped around Lord Hiss, her pistol still in hand. The Rain Guards stared at her, probably not realizing who she was. “Drop your weapon,” one of them yelled. Lady Blackveil stood there as confidently as Lord Hiss.

  “DROP—YOUR—WEAPON!” the Prefect cried.

  The three of them stood there, unmoving. Drea wasn’t so brave as the two strangers beside her, but the last year of her life had made her less afraid of death. And now, having disappointed herself by killing, she was fully prepared to die.

  Thryis, she thought. It was her only regret.

  “DROP YOUR WEAP—” The Prefect was interrupted by a stone someone had thrown, which panged off his helmet. He turned and looked for the source.

  From the swarming and panicking crowds, three slaves had emerged. One of them had thrown the stone, the other two stood nearby, armed with their own stones. One of the slaves took his master’s sign off and threw it to the ground.

  “There’s a Kalder in Drith!” the slave hissed at them.

  “Slave,” the Prefect said. “I don’t have time for you! You’ve assaulted a Rain Guard of Drith! Lie down and submit—”

  “There’s a Kalder in Drith!” someone else cried. The Rain Guards turned and looked behind them. There stood six more slaves, three of them having already removed the signs around their necks. “There’s a Kalder in Drith!” one of them called out.

  “What is this?” one of the Rain Guards said. “Some kind of joke?” He laughed. His colleagues didn’t.

  “THERE’S A KALDER IN DRITH!” boomed someone. Drea turned and saw a dozen men, gladiators, stepping out from one of the doors where the prisoners had come from. They were obviously prisoners themselves, men and women given inadequate leather armor and stick weapons to fight for the laughter of the crowd. But their faces were masks of rage. “THERE’S A KALDER IN DRITH! KALDER STILL LIVES! THERE’S A KALDER IN DRITH!”

  “There’s still one Kalder in Drith!” cried someone from the stands.

  “There’s still one! There’s still one!” someone else shouted.

  “There’s a Kalder in Drith!” a woman shrieked.

  Suddenly, Drea saw fighting beginning in the stands. First it was just a few scuffles, but these quickly morphed into larger brawls. Drea saw slaves attacking well-dressed arena attendees. She saw them throwing stones, kicking, spitting, biting, and tearing clothing from their masters.

  “THERE’S A KALDER IN DRITH!” the gladiators shouted.

  “What’s happening?” Drea whispered, stepping closer to Lady Blackveil. “What’s going on?”

  “Shhh, my Lady of Drith,” said the burned woman. “Let it happen.”

  Lictors ran out onto the field and into the stands, trying to establish order. They skewered slaves, but, like any lion to a pack of wild dogs, eventually the Lictors were dragged down by sheer numbers.

  And as Drea watched the horrific scene unfold, she realized what had happened. The graffiti she had been seeing—Kalder does not bend—and the people she had bumped into that muttered the phrase to her, it was all suddenly rushing back at her. The words of Kulisa and Fengin, saying that all the slaves in all the Houses had heard of Drea’s charity, of the rumors that she still held true to the core values of her father.

  Drea’s father had supported the Five-Year Law. The slaves had dreamed of it coming to pass. That dream had died, though, when the Kalderus were eradicated and Fedarus was assassinated.

  But that dream wasn’t dead anymore. Because there was a Kalder in Drith, and the people had been awakened by the name. They’d seen Drea rush to save her beloved Halorax, an ex-slave himself.

  Distill the Glamour, she thought suddenly.

  “Lord Hiss,” Drea said. “Raise me up.”

  He turned to her. “I’m sorry?”

  “Raise me up, at once! Now! Now!”

  It was her one chance.

  Lord Hiss did as he was bid, and in one motion he swept her into one of his massive arms and lifted her. Drea climbed awkwardly onto his shoulder, and stood up. She raised her hands to the sky, exactly as she’d seen priests and senators do when receiving the approbations or the worship of crowds. Exactly as she’d seen Harkonex Det do moments ago when he skewered the dead slave.

  “THERE’S A KALDER IN DRITH!” screamed the gladiators as they surrounded the Rain Guards. He pointed towards Drea, held aloft by Lord Hiss. “THERE’S ONE! THERE’
S STILL A KALDER!”

  In the stands, the Lictors were still being overwhelmed, and were forced to beat a retreat down the stairs and out of the arena.

  The violence brought blood down the stairs, spilled it across the seats. Lords and ladies of Major Houses that had never been so abused fled in tears. Some of them didn’t make it.

  Drea heard gunshots. She heard bullets slice through the air all around her. Rain Guards and Lictors were aiming at her, for she was now officially inciting a riot.

  To keep her courage, Drea closed her eyes, took deep, steadying breaths, and imagined she was sitting on a grassy hill with Thryis…

  There were more gunshots. Drea thought she heard one of the gladiators yelp in pain, probably shot, which only enraged the rest of the pack more. When she opened her eyes again, they had swarmed on the Rain Guards, throwing themselves at them. Some of the gladiators were slain instantly, others got in lucky shots on the Rain Guards, taking them down.

  “THERE’S A KALDER IN DRITH!” screamed a slave running onto the field behind her. Behind him was a host of other slaves, most of them tearing off their masters’ tags.

  Drea stood there, embodying their rage, making herself seen, making herself an avatar of justice, just as the girl at the Festival had been avatar of Hyra. Drea was a conduit for their pent-up anger, an excuse for their violence. They were using her towards their own ends, but Drea was using them, too.

  Drea said nothing. She did nothing. She just stood there in defiance of the bullets zipping around her. Let them imprint onto me what they need to. Let them imagine that I’m some brave conqueror. Let them have their moment of rebellion.

  Now slaves came pouring down from the stands, joining in the fracas in the middle of the arena. Some were killed in combat, others pulled whole squads of Rain Guards to the ground and beat them to death.

  Then, there came a low, low growl, one that everyone acknowledged. Drea felt it in her chest. She heard a clang, and a crash. She turned and saw the curtained cage, which she’d forgotten all about until now.