Revolutionary Veins

by Rey Balor

  The walk back was much louder, as the lumps in the cells had begun to stir once more. By the time they neared the entranceway, the prisoners had taken up a chant: “MACHINA, MACHINA, MACHINA.” Their cries shook the iron bars, and Shishpar and Glaive hit weapons against the cells as they passed to silence them. It was a pointless gesture, but the panopticon was coming alive for the first time in decades. The dust stirred, and the scent of rebellion accompanied it.

  Caliana held her chin higher. It was for her they chanted.

  The group took a detour at the bathhouse, where it took an hour and the help of four maids to scrub away the gritty dirt of the prisoner to reveal the sickly pale skin beneath. They dressed the woman in a simple robe and cut away the mats in her hair, only earning a few growls from her in the process. She gave little other protest, and the captain imagined that she was longing to be clean and whole once again. By the time Claymore brought her to the inner reaches of the northern throne room, the woman had gained back the temporary strength that had left her, but it was no longer the head of the Aegis she had to deal with. The Queen of the Summer Isles awaited her.

  The Queen’s throne was singular, as were all the thrones of the Queens, and it was perched several steps above the rest of the room, forcing all who entered to look up. Eternal, living rose vines weaved together to form a chair plucked straight from the heart of spring. At first glance, it caused hope where none was, but upon closer inspection, thorns jutted from the vines as if daring one to underestimate she who sat there. The woman who rested on it was equally as singular. Wisps of long, white-blonde hair fell over her shoulders to cover most of her form, but she wore little other clothing. A golden bracelet here, long strands of pearls there, and ivory skin everywhere else. Those who met with the Queen met with her in her purest form, that was a promise she had made centuries ago.

  “Ah, Caliana, it has been a long time, hasn’t it? The last I saw you, you had the muzzle of a wolf.” She motioned toward one of her servants, the ones she called her little flowers, and the young girl rushed forward with a glass of water in hand for the Queen’s guest. “I’m so glad it’s wintertime now, and all the other wolves are in hibernation. It makes speaking with you all the easier. Please, drink and sit. We’re old friends, after all.”

  Caliana remained standing, a skeleton of steel and eyes of ice.

  It was the Queen’s turn to laugh, but whereas Caliana’s had sounded desperate, hers sounded as full of the promise of spring as her throne. “You’ve never been good at the silent treatment. It’s utterly unbecoming on you, my darling. However shall we move past this if you refuse to talk?” Her gaze momentarily rested on Claymore, and the shield stiffened. The Queen had all the air of an unspoken secret, and understanding that secret would reveal itself soon, they stood in preparation. “I’ll prompt you with the one thing I know you’ll agree with: I won’t have you killed if you speak to me.”

  Knowing the secret was far different than Claymore imagined it would be. It fell sharp on their ears, and they snapped their attention to the wolfling captive. I won’t have you killed. Won’t, won’t, won’t — who would want to live a half-life of eternity? Who would want to cling to years that rotted around them? Who would want to reject the blessing of Death’s kiss? Claymore was horrified, and they dropped their gaze to the ground, head bowed low to cover their expression. From the slight movement behind them, they knew that their fellow Aegis had done the same.

  “Fine,” Caliana relented. She simmered, and the bitterness shot off her in heavy points. “I’m curious anyway. What you got in store for me?”

  The Queen smiled, but for as lovely as a sight as it was, there was something inherently cruel in the gesture. “You’ve never been the curious type.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Flowers, Aegis, it’s time for you to take your leave.” Claymore joined the others as they filed out, but once again, all it took to command them was a raise of the Queen’s hand. “Claymore, you stay. There’s not another I trust more with the task of protection, and in this instant, I’m not sure who shall need it more.”

  The room was not nearly silent enough, even with only the three individuals remaining behind. The Queen’s fingertips drummed a pattern along the arm of her throne, the prisoner sucked in air as if it might run out any moment, and the shield had begun to slowly walk the length of the throne room, waiting for any disturbances that might come. It was not a meeting on equal grounds, and Claymore had no doubts as to who would emerge the victor.

  Sharing that belief, the Queen had no difficulty in beginning. “We stand on a precipice. Even in your prison, I’m certain you sensed it. The cells of our skin are calling for war. It’s in our nature to fight, to destroy, but we conquered nature long ago. My fellow Queens don’t believe that. They consider us at the mercy of the world, and I’m almost certain you do the same.” She stood to her feet, a painting of renaissance come to life. The Queen had always likened herself to artwork, and such a likeness was blinding in that moment. “Peace has never been possible until now, when the threat of war sings the loudest. There’s a beauty to it, and that beauty is what we’ll need. If you’re wondering where you come in, Caliana, my sweet wolf, you are not as important as you may believe, but you may serve some purpose. Behind my throne, there’s a hidden panel. It will lead you either outside the castle or back into the dungeons.”

  Claymore’s duty fell strictly to the Citadel, not any one Queen, yet what the woman spoke about was treason in the highest regard. The shield clutched their sword tighter in hand and stopped in front of the throne, separating Queen from prisoner. It was enough to capture the Queen’s attention, and she laughed lightly, descending the stairs to stand directly in front of them.

  “All I ask is that you trust me, my sweet captain.” Her hand rested against Claymore’s cheek, soft and delicate. Every point in their body screamed such touches were not allowed, but in the end, it came down to a single question: did they trust those they served? Caliana’s words still stung, and with a small nod, they left the fate of the prisoner in the Queen’s hands. The dazzling curve of her lips was enough to appease their worry.

  The prisoner fidgeted in her spot, as if her body was pulling her toward the hidden panel.

  “You have two marvelous options, and while you might not be the curious kind, I am. Consider this deal your forbidden fruit — sin laced with knowledge,” she began again, gesturing toward the escape. “If you leave, there is a far greater chance you will end up back where you have rested for the past half-century. I shall never send another soul after you; I shall never bother you again. You will last at least another hundred years before succumbing to that darkness. Does it haunt you even now, I wonder?”

  “Or I could make it back to the wilds, and fuck you all.” The spit remained in Caliana’s response, which Claymore may have found admirable if it was not directed toward the one they were supposed to protect.

  The answer only served to amuse the Queen. “Yes, yes, you could. Of course, I’m not even quite sure if that path exists anymore — no one has ever found it. It’s a rather cruel trick, you can imagine. You are fueled by your freedom until you are physically unable to walk anymore, and you die in a tomb, more trapped than you were in your cells. I offer you another solution, and it is one that is far more certain.

  “Come with me. I shall shelter you in one of the towers, and while you may not have your lovely woods, you’ll have everything else you could hope for: food, a bed, clothes, and books. Those heathens in the woods never offered you such a deal, did they? When was the last time you read? I know you enjoyed such a thing once. We have knowledge for you, and all I ask in return is that you lend your assistance on a small project I’m working on. Afterward, I may even be able to secure a more permanent arrangement for you.” Yes, Claymore could see how such an offering might be viewed as the golden trap — pretty, glittering, and as malleable as any metal could be. “If your pride is getting in the way of accepting, I hope
you realize ample time alone in a tower gives you ample time to plot an escape, my darling.”

  Even for a wolfling, it was not a difficult decision to make.

  Chapter 5: The Wilds

  “Time shifts, but you must not.”

  Death’s Lament, 24.2

  ARISTA:

  It was a foolish plan, Illias knew, and Olena couldn’t seem to go more than a few minutes without reminding him of it.

  It was a foolish plan that would either shatter them, marking them as anarchists to the Citadel, or free them without a trickle of blood being spilled. He knew they stood on a precipice between chaos and freedom, but purpose had never struck him so hard as it did waking up that morning. The illusion of peace he had tried so hard to erect around himself had taken a more definite form in the nighttime hours.

  It was a foolish plan that had come suddenly,21 and for Olena, that made it all the more untrustworthy. She glared at him in the moments she wasn’t telling him off, and beneath that blazing anger lurked something so rare in the woman that he had to continue to glance her way to ensure what he saw was true — fear reflected in the moon gray of her eyes. She paled in sickened annoyance every time he sucked in a breath to defend himself, but as the day crept onward and they marched deeper into the wilds, the defenses came less and less.

  None of them had ever been to the Citadel; none had ever seen the great walls that jutted around the five corners of the Queens’ castle. There was a chance that the others would name Illias traitor for his idea, but they would not make such claims loudly out of respect for the man he called father, the elected King of the Erie-folk.22 Neilson would not stop him either, of that he was certain, for there was nothing traitorous about his intent, only a need to protect.

  “I’m going,” he had decided. He would travel past his people’s boundaries, past any strategy they had come up with, and past even his birth village. He would go to the Citadel itself as a representative of his people.

  The demands of the Erie-folk were simple. They wanted only to live in the independence they thrived in, left alone from the folly of rulers. There was no cry for more land, money, or the material goods those in the Citadel craved. Illias could only hope the resolution would be equally as straightforward.

  Perhaps he was just as foolish as his plan.

  Their supplies had been renewed at the last encampment they stormed, but the group of Erie-folk were already growing restless. The nearer they drew to the Citadel, the more fidgety they became. It was as if they could sense the cages at the center of the castle and knew what fate the Queens would have for them — wasting, locked away, forgotten. Every time he considered such a path, his breath would grow shallow and a thrill would travel up his spine. Suffocation was the word for it, but the feeling was chased away quickly whenever it emerged.

  “The risk is worth it. We both know that,” he told Olena adamantly, but the expression she returned was blank. When her lips curled, he stood his ground. When she asked him to repeat himself, he did so easily. When she was the one who walked away, he let her, calling after with only a, “think like a leader, Ol.”

  Putting his faith in the five Queens was not what he desired, and try as he might to reassure Olena in the following days, she spat at making truces with the ones who called the oil in their veins royal blood. A part of him could not help but agree. Even if a truce could be reached, who was to say they would keep to it?

  It was the longest he had ever gone without speaking to his spica. She had always been an extension of his own self, a reflection that was brighter and truer than anything he glimpsed in a mirror, yet she felt far from him.

  “It’s my destiny to kill them, Illias. It’s my destiny to kill the stars,” she had told him once. He dishonored everything she was by making it his destiny to save them all.

  They marched in silence. They ate in silence. He was a storyteller turned warrior, and silence boiled against his skin with the ferocity of an ancient illness. When he finally could not take it anymore, he went for a walk in the woods alone. Spear in hand, he climbed one of the trees to gather a vantage point of the world around him. He had never been the fastest climber, but he pulled himself high with ease enough. The overwhelming aroma of oak surrounded him, and each way he turned, he was met with leaves of green, green, green. His belly pressed against one of the larger branches as a shuffle nearby told him he wasn’t alone.

  “Theo?”

  The younger girl sat on the opposite side of the tree with legs hanging, kicking them back and forth as she watched Illias with huge, unseeing eyes. For once, her unkempt hair was tied back, but ale-colored strands were springing free around her face. Even through the thick foliage, he could see the hundred freckles coating her arms, and she waved in his direction nonchalantly. Beside her, strange decorations hung in the branches.23 The group had only been in the area a few days, and she had already made the grove her home. Putting a finger to her lips to shush him, she pointed to the ground.

  Below, the forest was coming alive again. The larger animals remained away as they caught the pair’s scents in the breeze, but the smaller animals had not yet learned to fear human. A rabbit sniffed a bush in search for food, and it was to the rabbit’s direction Theo continued to point. He saw a chance for an apology in the meat on the small animal’s bones. It was as good an apology as he could offer in an hour’s time, and after mouthing a thank you that Theo could not see, he began his quiet descent down.

  He returned to camp with the animal slung over his shoulder.

  Still, Olena remained sullen with him, and the day ended with them on opposite sides of the fire, the smell of rabbit overpowered by the stench of anger. Illias laid on his back, staring at the dim sky and the memory of the brilliant comet that had disrupted it more than a week ago. You know what that means, Il? He could still hear the echo of Olena’s voice. The first ones to see it are meant for something great. Don’t fuck this up for me, yeah?

  “Olena,” he said aloud, knowing she laid awake too.

  Several moments passed before she answered. “Illias.”

  “Come with me.”

  “We’re the Erie-folk, Il — the free people. Freedom has to be fought for and earned — didn’t you say that yourself? You can’t ask nicely and hope they’ll give it.” He could hear her fidget with the edge of her blanket, and he turned on his side so that he could see her silhouette. She did the same, and the tightness in his chest lessened, if only slightly.

  “Trust me with this.” If the others slumbering around the fire listened, they gave no sign to it. “I can do this. A few months is all I ask — until it’s time for winter.”

  “I’m not going.”

  He knew what she expected him to say. By the stars, he meant to say it. He meant to open his mouth and say he wouldn’t go without her, that to part with his spica would be an insult to the world, and she had only ever offered him liberty from such things. He meant to say a good many things, but he only looked at her. She glimpsed something there, and she sat up abruptly, throwing a fistful of dirt at him.

  “Fuck you, Illias Rivers. You’re plannin’ on leaving me behind?” He had only seen Olena cry twice, both times beside the funeral pyre for one who had joined the stars too soon, and she roughly brushed the emotion away. It was Illias who was free with his tears. They pricked his eyes in response to her anger, and he used their burn to drive him forward. She swallowed them and used them to feed the wildfire in her. “We were born beneath the same sky. That forms a promise. You mean to break that to save some chained-folk?”

  What was a few months when the threat of living forever spilled before them?

  A few months was everything. In the tick of such a short span, the very definition of a wolfling could shift. They had the chance to decide their fate: to choose between being the hunted, the hunters, or a force all their own. It could change everything they were or would become — everything he was or would become. In those ticks there would be laughter they would miss, sa
dness they would be unable to comfort, and a growth in their bones that would kill who they were and forge who they would become. A few months, and that ache in their chests would claw at them in search of whatever was left that made them human.

  How was it, being split in two?

  “A month,” he amended, sitting up as well. No more time than that. “You’re my sister in all but blood. If the stars chose us to be together, why would a month change any of that? I go for peace. If they kill me, you’ll find me blazing in a new constellation. If they don’t, we may just see how old age looks on one another. Isn’t that why we fight — for the right to grow old and die, as people used to do once?”

  They had never been apart for so long, and for the chained-folk to change that… From the hunch in her posture, he knew that Olena could not help but wonder what a month of dreams would do. She grabbed hold of the scruff of his tunic, and even she could not seem to decide if she meant to punch him or embrace him. She chose a third option, resting her forehead against his own. Their brows bumped together, and although Illias doubted he would ever see anything resembling resignation from the wildfire in the shape of a girl, there it was, for him alone.

  “We fight to stay wild, Illias. Don’t you forget that in your try for peace. Don’t you forget that you’re a wild thing too.” If left alone, wild things were peaceful enough, but if provoked, she did not want him to forget what they were capable of. She pulled back, and from her boot, she tugged the dagger she had used to mark herself with in what felt like years prior. Without a word, he reached down and removed his from its resting place. They exchanged the weapons, something they had done a hundred times before and hoped to do a hundred times more.

  If one was to die, they would carry the mark of the other with them.

  “I’ll leave in the morning.”

  SPICA:

  Olena dreamed that she — both parts of herself, the boy and the girl — was a child once more. She splashed in the snowmelt rivers, laughing loudly as those around her sung hymns of people that were forgotten and places that did not exist any longer. Illias was drowning, but there she remained, laughing in the foreground. The sound took on an almost cruel noise, becoming the sickening sound of a beast instead of the pearly chuckle of a girl. It overshadowed the boy behind her and the sounds of his lungs filling with water.