Yes. You were . . . close. She was like a sister to you.
Was? Is she . . . dead?
I’m not sure. That’s possible; she did not come in with your group.
How do you know about her? How did they?
When I went through the physical changes, they briefed me on your relationship through their findings from the MemTap program. She glances at her hands, then around the little room with a giggle. “Well, we can’t stand here all day gazing at your stunning reflection,” she says. “We’re running out of time! I bet they’ve already served the second appetizer.” I’ll explain more later.
I take another look at myself, tracing the intricate patterns along the dress. Beautiful, though I can’t say the same for my scarred and bruised face.
“Oh, here.” Zee opens a small, golden circle with a fluffy, white pad in the middle of it. She pats the white thing in some creamy-soft powder, blots it all over my face, then rubs my cheeks in a circular motion. “For today, you’ll be natural,” she says. “But for the wedding, they’ll decorate your face with the ceremonial makeup to protect your purity from the Impures who’ll be witnessing.”
“Um, okay . . .” My chest swells with an overwhelming combination of fear and confusion, and I struggle to catch my breath.
“And one more thing.” Zee removes from a small, gold satchel dangling at her waist a tiny jar with a fancy lid. She holds it near my neck and squeezes an opaque bubble, misting my skin with a delicious scent that makes my eyes pop wide.
Zee, I think I remembered something. That fragrance, it’s familiar.
Interesting. This came from the Monastery; only Pure royalty may wear it. To my knowledge, it’s only found in Alzanei, and you haven’t been here long—
But I’m sure I’ve smelled it before, Zee.
Well, I suppose it’s possible, though I’m still not sure how. Smell is often the first memory to return.
That’s why this place seems so strange. How long did you say I’ve been here?
A few days. And yes, coming from where you have, everything would be unfamiliar, even with your memories intact.
Where did I come from?
Greenleigh.
Can you tell me about it?
No. We have to hurry. They’ll be wondering what’s taking so long. But you’ll know soon. She loops her arm through mine. “If I support you, can you walk all right?”
“I think so.”
“Shall we, then?”
I take a deep breath and Zee’s hand. “Ready.”
We exit the dressing room to the dining hall full of people wearing white and cream. There’s pressure in my chest. Zee, I’m so nervous . . .
You’ll be great, Joy. You’ve always been good at handling whatever comes your way; it’s obvious in your strength. Just relax and enjoy the delicious food. You’ve had little of that in your lifetime.
She guides me up front to the end of the center table, to a gold-painted, carved wooden chair. Everyone rises from their seats while Zee pulls mine out for me to sit, and my face burns from their stares. If I could remember anything, I’m sure I’d say this is the most uncomfortable moment of my life.
Or not.
“Attention!” A man in a stiff, white suit with gold detail and a tall, white hat stands in one corner of the room, hands clasped. “Attention everyone! Our lord will join us once we have all purged the impurities tainting our minds.”
The people lower their heads, murmuring words I can’t make out, and I bow mine, too.
Zee nudges me under the table with her foot. We are Purest. Your “engagement” means we no longer have to repent. She sits taller in example.
I don’t understand what any of this means. I copy her, raising my chin high, back arched.
It’s okay. You’re doing great. But be prepared, brace yourself. This will not be easy.
Her last word dies away, and two men in white helmets roll into the room with wheels for feet. The moment they enter, the helmets are removed and placed onto the long table beside the door. These men wear dark purple suits dotted with gold buttons, identical blank expressions, and unusual black markings on their necks. Each holds a long stick with a canister affixed to the end, and they swing them overhead, casting wispy trails of smoke around them.
Rolling along behind the rolling smoke-men is a hideous creature slightly resembling a man, draped in a white robe with swirling purple-and-gold patterns. He has high, sharp cheekbones; a pointy nose; thin, blood-red lips; and long, golden-white hair that shines beneath the light. And his eyes . . . so blue, yet so hollow. He yanks hard on a chain, and at its end, a gagged and shackled boy limps forward.
Zee, please tell me that’s not the man I’m engaged to.
That’s him.
Oh my God, I can’t do this.
You have to, if you want to save yourself and the others . . . and the boy in chains.
Who is he?
Someone who came in with you. They call him Alexander. I don’t know his real name. Other than you, only he and three girls from your group were deemed pure.
In “Alexander” I sense something wistful and warm when we gaze at each other. But it’s severed by Lord Daumier’s piercing, blue-eyed stare when they approach our table.
Stand up, Zee says. Bow, then kiss his hand when he offers it to you.
I stand, though I feel I’ll faint or vomit any second. The men with the smoke lanterns pass by, and Lord Daumier stops in front of me with the chained boy. I bow, and he offers his hand, which I take in my trembling one. I kiss it, and the moment my lips touch his skin, an overwhelming urge to scream rises in me, and I hold my breath until it subsides. With a flick of his finger, he motions for the people to sit, leaving me standing there, trying to hide my shaking.
“Good evening.” His voice alone could cut through bone and glass. “As you are all aware, my fiancée, Lily, had a terrible accident last week. But she has made a remarkable recovery.” He taps a hand to his palm once, and the room erupts into applause. “So let us all feast in celebration! And during dessert, I have an announcement you will all find quite exciting.” He slides pointy fingernails along the clasps of my dress, stopping at the small of my back. Then he turns and ascends the three steps behind him, yanking the chained boy along. I catch another glimpse of the boy’s eyes—blue, bottomless, pleading . . . lost. They call to me as Lord Daumier drags him, his head whipping forward with a trip up the steps.
Does he still have his memory? I ask Zee.
Yes, and Lord Daumier has taken a liking to him and the three girls. The boy may not speak; he is severely punished for it. He’s learning quickly that Daumier means what he says, and if he says don’t speak, you’d better not, or be far away before you do.
All of these people know the lie, and they’re just . . . going along with it?
I’m afraid so. All of his choices, thoughts, and actions—no matter what they are—are deemed pure, holy, because he is the one true lord. If you question him, you’re exiled across the chasm. And no Pure would ever dream of being sent there, so they obey his every whim.
What’s on the other side of the chasm?
The Impure Village. Mercantile factories, crop fields and animal stalls, the rendering plant, the prison . . . It’s where the Impures live, hungry and forgotten, working sixteen hours a day to feed, clothe, repair, fish, render, serve, and harvest for all of Alzanei. Until their thirtieth year, at which time they will give the Ultimate Sacrifice.
What’s . . . the “Ultimate Sacrifice”?
That’s too difficult to explain to you.
Well, it doesn’t sound very good.
It isn’t. And Joy . . . the rest of your group is over there.
How many are in my group?
About forty, I think.
Wow. So many I don’t remember.
From doorways set on either side of the back wall, at least twenty or thirty men and women wearing long aprons emerge carrying large, silver trays filled with strange, colorful food. A woman approaches, smiling, a streak of white powder smeared across one cheek, and sets a tray down between Zee and myself. The moment she does, I start. The thing on the tray stares up at me with huge, glossy, dead eyes.
“It’s okay.” Zee pats my arm. “It’s fish, remember? You’ve had it a thousand times, I promise.” And beneath the table, she taps my foot with her own.
“Oh, yes, now that you mention it . . . it does seem . . . like a familiar meal.” I give the woman a half-smile, and she nods, then strides off. I watch her leave, and my gaze falls to the chained boy again. He kneels beside Lord Daumier with a wad of cloth stuffed in his mouth, bound in place and tied behind his head. There’s pain and longing in my chest.
When Lord Daumier catches him staring at me, he flicks one finger in the air, and two men appear from opposite corners of the room. They wear dark red, blending them into the walls and the shadows, and each clutches a stick with a long rope attached. They position themselves to either side of the boy and alternate lashes on his back, three times each, until the boy curls up in a heaving ball at Daumier’s feet. With each lash, he sneers, the corners of his thin lips curling with sadistic lust for the feast spread before him.
I almost rise to stop the horror, but Zee grabs my hand and squeezes. Don’t.
Why are they doing that?
They caught him staring at you.
Is that not allowed?
No. Especially not from him. Because he knows the truth.
Why not implant a new memory into him, too?
Because this way is more . . . pleasurable for Lord Daumier. To watch those who love you suffer, knowing you will soon wed him. And you, oblivious to the truth, makes it even better. He has a sick fascination with watching others in many different stages of suffering.
Angry, bloody slash marks show through the tears in Alexander’s cream-colored shirt, and he shudders, heaving on the floor. The people view this in silence while the two red-clothed men return to their corners.
“As you were.” Lord Daumier raises a hand, lowers it to his lap.
The clanking of plates and utensils mixed with a rolling murmur resumes; the return to normalcy comes without a second thought.
Does this happen often? I ask Zee.
Yes. He always has a martyr—a Pure boy who is made an example of. It is how he instills fear, keeps them under his control.
After picking at the disgusting-looking fish, and another bizarre aquatic dish, it’s time for dessert. Gooey, creamy, and sweet, dotted with tiny edible flowers. This, I admit, I lose myself in. It’s even more delicious than Suellen’s tea. In fact, the flavor is very similar.
Zee, this dessert tastes like the tea Suellen gave me.
Don’t eat it. Say you’re stuffed and can’t eat another bite.
“Wow, I’m stuffed!” I dab my napkin at my lips. “I can’t eat another bite.”
Lord Daumier studies me, then he rises from his chair.
The people silence.
“As you are all aware,” he begins, “I have finally found a wife suitable for marriage.” And he holds out one hand toward me, beckoning me to him with one long finger. “Lily . . .”
I rise, numb and fidgety, and take the three steps up to him. He offers his hand, guiding me to his side, then grips me tight around my waist. My blood burns beneath my skin as the boy squirms in my peripheral.
“On account of Lily’s speedy recovery after her accident,” Daumier says, “I have moved the Unification date up. We will unite in holy matrimony in two days’ time, on the spring equinox.”
The chained boy pries away his bind and spits out the cloth. “No! He’s lying! They all are! What’s wrong with you, J—?”
Daumier’s swift kick to the boy’s jaw silences him, and the red-clothed men race from their corners, whips poised to strike. But Daumier raises a hand. “No.” He takes a whip from one man and offers it to me. “Let my Lily prove to us all how fit for royalty she is. Let her give the martyr his dues.”
I take it with shaky hands. What do I do, Zee?
Do it. If you want to save him later, he must suffer now. Please, Joy, you have to trust me.
But the boy shakes his head at me, and my insides scream to him, I’m so sorry! If only he could hear me like Zee can.
“Come, my dear.” Lord Daumier’s voice, a razor along my veins.
Before I can rethink my actions, I raise the whip and strike him, feeling the shock and jolt in my own body and soul.
Daumier laughs. “Again.”
I do so, two more lashes, and the boy cries out, threatening my own tears.
“Again.” Daumier’s thick purple tongue slides along his lips.
I clutch the whip and inhale, burying my human emotions in a place where I’ll tend to them later. And I strike the boy again. He lies on the floor a sobbing wreck, while I struggle to remain calm. But all I want to do is lie down with him, hold him, heal him, and tell him how sorry I am.
“Superb, my darling.” Lord Daumier strokes my hair, and I swallow the building rage that drives me to turn the whip on him. Something tells me that would be a very bad idea. He returns the whip to one of his red-robed men, and they retreat to their respective corners. Daumier raises two hands to the observing crowd. “You are all excused.”
The people shuffle around, chatting with one another. They disappear down the aisles and through the front door in pairs and small groups.
“And you, my dear . . .” Daumier clutches me close, brushes his ghastly, red lips against the skin of my neck. “You will see how good girls are rewarded, in my Monastery tonight. A little . . . taste . . . of the spectacular life you’ll soon lead once you are my wife.” He looks over at Zee. “Escort her to Maudine’s, then have her to my doorstep in two hours.” He glances at the boy. “I have some things to take care of.”
Zee bows. “As you wish, my lord.”
He leans in to kiss me. I almost back away, but remember I’m supposed to play along. So I let him. He grips the back of my head, pressing my mouth to his, and his teeth dig into my lips—I can’t breathe. I manage to stifle a gag, and thank goodness he retracts in time to save me from vomiting. “That’s a good girl.” He slaps my backside and I clench my jaw. “We’re going to have a marvelous evening.” The grotesque, purplish tongue again slides along his bottom lip.
“I’m sure we will,” I say, though I’d rather spit in his face. “I can’t wait.”
He picks up the end of the boy’s chain, motions to his smoke canister men, and they all head toward the door, the boy stumbling behind them, bloody, broken. After they’ve exited the building, I break down in Zee’s arms.
It’s okay, she says. He’ll get what he deserves.
But what about tonight? What’s he going to . . . do . . . to me?
We’ll . . . talk more at Maudine’s.
What’s Maudine’s?
It’s where Pure women go to get their bodies . . . prepared . . . to offer to their men. And she nods to where a woman gathers plates from a nearby table. “Come now, sister. Let’s hurry along.” She links her arm in through mine, and together, we head toward the door.
I can’t believe I did that to Alexander, Zee.
He’ll forgive you, I can see it. He loves you.
Somehow, I know she’s right. And something familiar inside me clamors . . . that I may love him, too.
When we get outside, a thousand lilac stars twinkle above us and the lavender moon has shifted its position in the sky. Over the white, arched bridge and pool, Zee cuts left down a winding dirt path lined with flowers, their colors muted gray by the night. I feel their pain. We stroll in silence, stopping whenever I get dizzy, and I dig deep inside mys
elf for a piece of who I am in the light . . . the colors of Joy. Things will be so much easier—and much more difficult—when I remember.
Soon, the pathway opens to a wider area enclosed by a metal railing, where at the entrance hangs a large sign that reads: Towne Centre. Posted below it is another sign with words I can’t quite make out. I walk toward it, and Zee follows. Once there, I squint to read it.
Citizens of Alzanei,
Due to the recent disappearances, a new law shall be implemented from this day forward: For every one of His Lord’s Clergymen, Pures, or OAIs who goes missing, two children and two Impures are beheaded at dawn the following day. All citizens must be present at the execution.
~ His Lord’s Clergy
Farther in, at the center of the area, is a semi-circle of four rectangular objects, each with dark splatter stains on them.
“What are those?” I ask.
“Guillotines. For the beheadings.”
“No . . . Children, too?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“How awful.”
“Yes . . . it is.”
“What are OAIs?” I ask.
“They are the men and women you see with the white helmets. They are . . . Lord Daumier’s . . . special Pures.”
“What makes them so special?”
“They are part machine.”
“Part machine? How—?”
“Extensive scientific discoveries and modifications. Please, don’t make me explain it beyond that for now.”
Through the darkness and beyond the cluster of living tubes, the Monastery glows on the horizon. Torches flicker along the railings, and at the bottom of the building, right in the center, stands a giant, red door with its own small balcony above it. Hung from this is a heavy white cloth with a gold circle in the middle—the same markings as the scar on my wrist.
We stop for a moment, and I stare, trembling with dread. I don’t want to go in there.
I know, Joy. But you have to. Don’t worry, though . . . I’ve got something that will . . . help you. “Right over here.” She guides me in another direction. Also, you going there puts you in a great position to scan the place, see what you find. Few humans have entered Lord Daumier’s quarters. You have a unique advantage.
The Soultakers (The Treemakers Trilogy Book 2) Page 16
