by Rey Balor
REVOLUTIONARY VEINS
REY BALOR
ABOUT THE ENDNOTES
Rey Balor makes asides throughout the novel for a rich world-building experience, which you can find in this book's endnotes. To access these comments as you are reading the story, click on the highlighted superscript number and the page will go to the corresponding note. To return to where you were reading, click the arrow at the end of the note. This feature works on most devices.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE QUEENS OF THE CITADEL: the five points to the One True Star
The Queen of the Summer Isles.......... Orchestrates proceedings in the Citadel, represents the point of passion The Queen of Stone............................. The bridge between common folk and the Queens, represents the point of ambition The Queen of the Pillared Lands......... Scours the old cities for resources, represents the point of ruthlessness The Queen of the Range...................... Provider of food, represents the point of gentleness The Queen of the Vanguard................. Head of defense, represents the point of pragmatism
THE AEGIS: protectors of the Citadel’s traditions
Claymore1............................................. Newly promoted captain of the guards, determined to make everything and everyone fit in place Shishpar............................................... A purist of the Old Ways
Glaive.................................................. Believer of the idea that Death should be given more freely Falchion............................................... Lived through three captains, suspicious of the order Maul.................................................... Born into the order of the Aegis, has known no other life PRISONERS: kept in the prison tower at the center of the Citadel
Machina............................................... Captured four decades ago, her keepers know her trueborn name THE ERIE-FOLK: independent folk that value freedom above all
Illias Rivers | Roam............................. A young man adopted by the Rivers family when he was a babe, longs for a world at peace, Olena’s spica Olena Rivers | Khalsa.......................... A young woman with her mother’s traditions and her father’s values, likens herself to strategists of the past, Illias’s spica Savi Litero | Mata................................ A gatherer of the community, said to hear the call of edible plants, Olena and Illias’s mother Neilson Rivers | King.......................... A large bear of a man, united most of the various villages and communities of Erie-folk, Olena and Illias’s father Theo Stone | Picket.............................. A blind woman who was found by Olena as a girl and claimed the Erie-folk as her own, unstoppable LIGHT BRINGERS: enlighteners who live in a space station above earth
Hypatia................................................ A young girl, meant to come to earth and show those who live on the surface how to utilize the planet Nikola................................................. The only elder aboard the space station, remained behind to raise the next generation of young OTHERS: a part of the Citadel, yet separate
Ranger.................................................. A scout, sent from the Citadel to spy on the Erie-folk Hops..................................................... A simple bartender in an outer town, in for more than he planned
Preface
THE ABANDONMENT OF DEATH
60 years after eruption
The boy sat on the edge of the world. It had been a pilgrimage traveling there, but now that he saw it — that destroyer of worlds — he could not comprehend its true extent. There was a hole where life should be and a blanket of gray every which way he turned. It was bad enough that he could not tell ground from sky anymore; it was worse that there was not a living soul within shouting distance to share in this endless loneliness.
The air was already choking him. The layer of ash beneath him went deeper than he could dig, but he found himself suddenly desperate for something beyond the gray. He dug his hands into the ground, the thick ash falling through his fingers like sand. It was worse than sand — so, so much worse. He would not sink this deeply into sand, as if he was being swallowed by the crust. He dug until his nails were black from the effort, and then he continued to dig until he could no longer breathe.
Somewhere beneath his feet, there was a city. His grandparents had spoken highly of it, reminiscing of a world he could not imagine. He no longer recalled their voices, for they had died when he was still a child.2 Even as their faces faded to memory, however, he remembered their stories. He would find it again, he promised them all those years ago. If only he could find it, the world would return to how it was — a world of sprawling cities, global communication, and endless dreams not limited by the weight of the air. Breath rattled in his lungs, and still, he tried to dig.
He would not find it, but he had known that walking here. His food had run out, his water had all but dissipated, and he finally collapsed in an exhausted heap, sending flurries of dust around him. The world was gone, he wanted to tell his grandparents, but every time he opened his mouth to speak, he breathed in pain — and so, he waited for Death to find him in the endless expanse.
Never once did he cough.
It was four days before he grew bored, and he sat up from his would-be coffin, head swimming with weakness. It was not a weakness that would force his body to crumble into matching ash of the world around him; it was a weakness that ached and did nothing else. He was tired of it, and as he pulled himself to his feet to start walking, he caught a glimpse of dark wings against the darker skies and nearly wept with joy for the promise that he was not the only life out here.
He chose something that day: he chose to live, and that choice reverberated throughout the world. All over, people were choosing to do the same. They allowed the scent of ash and dust to fill their bodies, and instead of staining their insides, it acted as a fuel. Humanity tasted extinction, and they fought it as they had fought for so much throughout their history. They evolved; they grew; they lived.
KILL ME became a dare.
Years ticked by, and the generations that followed the boy began to dip in population as each lived a longer and longer life. At first, there was celebration, but as the years continued, the celebration fumbled. Children were rarely born, and new rituals were forged in the threat of the everlasting. Trueborn names were secrets given only to a few, carrying the souls of those trapped on the planet. Only grievous injuries lasted, and only those deemed worthy were allowed to pass on. To achieve a pure death became the focus of life, and mouths cried for the privilege of an ending. The planet moved forward, century after century, but the people did not. They stalled, stalled, stalled…
KILL ME became a prayer.
THE EARTH
2500 years after eruption
They were born under the same moon. His mother looked upon the boy with no shortage of fear; her mother looked upon the girl with no shortage of wonder. There was no one else in the birthing room, but outside, the footsteps of a man could be heard — impatient, he lurked in the doorway for news of his mate and child. All others in the tiny village remained far from the building, for the man carried a long spear and a scowl that would send even the five Queens scattering.
“Have you thought of a name for him?” The mother of the girl had been the more vocal of the pair, even in labor. She clung to the edges of her sheets, crying out for her god. It was a natural mechanism to cope with the pain, and she was as unrestrained as only the Erie-folk could be. The other mother knew what she was, and she edged farther away at the sound of the question. “There’s no use denying it,” the girl’s mother said. “Your little son and my little daughter are connected now — birthmates, your people call them. Mine call them spicas. You can’t deny them that.”
The mother of the
boy remained silent, same as she had during delivery.
A sheen of sweat still shone on her forehead, and she stared at the boy in her arms, a new emotion mingling in with her agitation. She hated him. He had the pale hazel eyes of his father, and she knew — knew with more certainty than she’d ever known anything — that he would have the same damn smile. Oh, how that smile charmed her at first… There was no name for her son that she would give. A name was a powerful thing, after all, and that was a power she would not accept; it was a red string she would not tie between them.
“All I ask is once a year for them to see each other. We can meet in this village, and not a soul from your beloved city needs to know your son’s spica is from the Erie-folk.” The title elicited a strangled gasp and no more. “She was born on Blue’s Night, same as your boy. Please, please, don’t deny this.”
The mother of the boy slowly stood to her feet, ignoring the way her knees shook and knocked together. She had never been this weak before, but her grip on her son was strong. She knew what she had to do — had there ever been another option?
“I’ll return,” she lied. She didn’t want the wolves following them, with their pointy grins and thieving hands. All stories confirmed those who roamed the forests were more beast than human, and the only thing such creatures were good for was driving brave men inside with fear of the full moon. Wolflings, she wanted to spit at them, but she swallowed the slur.
Her son squirmed in her embrace, and she slipped past the man in the doorway with a mumbled promise of return. He had more pressing concerns, and as she retreated, she could hear him slip into the building in search of his newborn child. Children were as rare as blue skies, but she couldn’t help but wonder if he would be disappointed that his wife bore him a daughter.3
The village had three buildings total: the birth house, the pub, and the inn. It was a stopping ground in between wildlife and cityscape — a place of trading and rest, a place belonging to neither Erie-folk nor the Citadel. The villagers’ small homes were farther down the road, and all were far too superstitious to approach while the births took place. It left the area with a strangely abandoned feel to it, and the mother of the boy walked through the apparent ghost town with a shiver beginning to creep down her spine. Several yards away, the forest loomed, utterly expansive and all consuming.
It swallowed her the instant she crossed the shadows of the trees, as wild and untamable as the Queen of Stone had promised. The Queen had suggested the birth house after hearing rumors of another’s pregnancy nearby, for wasn’t it the mother’s sacred duty to find her child’s other half, if such an individual existed?4 She could not have called this miracle disgusting in the face of one so powerful, and so the woman took to the journey to the consecrated grounds of the birth house with the same shaken dignity she carried now. The sharp scent of trees warred with the distant warmth of smoke, and her head swam the more she inhaled. Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting — the word echoed now with nothing to stop it.
Careful to move in a straight line, the woman continuously glanced back over her shoulder to ensure she didn’t lose her way. There would be no use getting lost, not when she had a home of her own to return to. All she had to give them was one falsehood, and things would return to normal. He’s dead, and she would be allowed back to routine.
In the small hollow of a log, she set down her son.
“Rest easy,” she said in quick prayer, making the shape of a star across her chest. It was the only way, the only way, the only way. The mantra was a powerful one, powerful enough to carry her away from the only child she would ever bear, and she held her head high as she left, carrying the hope that life would return to its usual, lonely progression. As if sensing her abandonment, he began to cry. If tears burned in her eyes, they did not fall, but the baby’s screams grew louder.
In the dim light of the birth house, the baby girl began to cry as well. Her small fists swung around, searching out for the other part of herself that she had no way of knowing belonged by her side. Her mother shushed her calmly, but her gaze flicked toward the doorway every few seconds. There were ceremonies that needed to be done, sacrifices that needed to be made…
“She’s not coming back,” she finally realized. Horror met horror as she and her mate stared at one another. He was running out the door before she could stop him, and the weapon clattered from his grip, forgotten in his frenzy.
If the forest had swallowed the mother of the boy, it greeted the man like an old friend. Silence was not an enemy for him, and it wrapped around his movements, even as he sprinted along the thin remnants of a trail. There were darker things in these woods than man, and the hungry growls of beasts and spirits alike were not frightened of him enough to hold their breaths as he passed. If anything, he only made them hungrier.
The cries of an infant gradually grew louder, but there was no sign of the mother. A dozen curses left him as he finally caught sight of what would have been the baby’s tomb. The boy was as different from him as anyone had a right to be. The child was nearly as light as a clear sky, with pale eyes and a soft voice; the man was nearly as dark as the trees of their home, with eyes of coal and a yell to match. When he cradled the infant, such differences mattered little.
The man already loved him as a son.
“You need a strong name if you’re to survive out here, and always remember that a name holds power. We give that power out, but from where you come from, they hold it close to them. Fucking selfish, if you ask me, and why they won’t survive.” As if remembering it was a babe he spoke to, he grinned down at him and quieted his voice. “Mine’s Neilson. You’ve got my heart already, son, so may as well take my name too. Others will call me King out here, but it’s Neilson to you. We’ll see what you’re made of soon enough. All I ask is you survive winter, little one. Survive for yourself — both yourselves.”
Both his mate and his daughter were crying when he returned to the birth house.
“Savi, I found him. His ma’s gone, and he’s still nameless, far as I can tell, same as her.” He sat beside her, ignoring the mess of the sheets as he showed her the boy. Savi nodded her head, tears subsiding. He kissed the remaining ones away, and a calloused hand cupped her cheek in comfort. “We’ll take care of them both.”
She rested her forehead against his own. The children fell quiet at the sight of each other, which caused their mother to form a smile. It was a selfish gesture, better more for her and her own that he remained with them than for him — but she’d do right by him all the same. “Her name’s to be Olena.”
“A strong name.”
“What shall we call him?”
“His ma’s gone. His da’s gone. He’s a son of the stars now — a son of us now. He’ll need something just as strong,” he returned. “Do you remember the story of the last king we had?”
It was a sad story, more than anything.
In all time of the Erie-folk, in the hundreds of seasons that existed in their history, there had been only four kings. The first was angry, pride tarnished and lands stolen by the five Queens. He gathered an army, and they chanted his trueborn name — something no one had ever done before. It rang out as they marched to the Citadel, and it gave him strength beyond what anyone could imagine. Fueled by rage, they thought the city would catch fire from it; instead, it was them that burned. Their ashes were used in the cement to build taller walls around the Citadel.
The second was clever, past events not yet having faded to history. The smell of the flames had been engraved into his memory, and he crept into the city with an axe in hand to dismember the Queens. It would be a dishonorable death, an incomplete death, and he knew it. He planned a year for it, and he would gain their powers after their souls left the earth. His spicas accompanied him, his most trusted friends, but one had a dark secret. Jealousy had turned one of the men’s hearts to stone. Being a part of a third was not what he wanted; he wanted to be the half of a whole, the mate to the man others saw as his brothe
r. He pushed their third from the top of the wall, and the guards of the Queens found the remaining two and dismembered them instead. It was rumored their skulls still decorated the bridge to the city, and the Queens gained their power.
The third was revolutionary, in love with the taste of freedom and nothing else. He was the youngest, with no spicas of his own, but he looked to the stars and saw a goal all of them had only dreamed of: he saw their future hanging in the space above their planet. He neither crept into nor stormed the Citadel. With his chosen family, he snuck aboard a launch ship and was never heard from again. Some claimed he made it to the stars; others claimed his ghost haunts the site the ship departed from. All agreed on one thing: his name was Illias, same as the ship he hoped would carry him away.
The current king sat beside his woman in a birth house, telling the story to his newborns.
“Illias,” the mother tried the name on her tongue. “Aye, I think that’s a fair name. He might be a King yet.”
“Just as Olena may be a great warrior.”
“Or a Queen.”
There had been only one queen in the Erie-folk’s history, and her betrayal was bitter to all who heard the myth. Neilson’s gaze turned sharp for an instant, but it was quick to fade. Their people existed to remind the world that it was humanity’s destiny to shift and change — that they were meant to live in a line, not an unending circle.
“Aye, or a Queen.”
Outside, above the thick dust that coated the planet earth’s atmosphere, the bright blue light of a comet still left a glow. It spoke a promise to all who saw it: the world was moving forward, and not even the darkness of ash would keep it away. Slowly, slowly, Earth rotated, and slowly, slowly, the boy and girl known as Illias and Olena changed with it.
Twenty-two years would pass before they returned to their place of birth.
Twenty-two years would pass before the wolflings were ready to bare their teeth.
