Revolutionary Veins

by Rey Balor

  They addressed the other Aegis around the table, “Say your piece. I can hear your thoughts from here.”

  Glaive spoke first, as Claymore suspected it would be. The girl was young and foolish with a heart equal parts eager to please and defend. She was a predator in the making, when what she really needed to be was a tree — proud, quiet, and strong. She stood to her feet and set her long weapon on the table in front of Claymore as a promise her words would not lead to action. The double-blades pointed to each side of her, and imprints of where she had clutched the staff tightly were visible between the curved edges. With a flick of her head, jagged brown hair moved from her line of sight, and her nostrils flared in ready argument.

  “We have five principles of duty, and one of them is the promise of neutrality. Are we not breaking such a vow by removing the prisoner from her cell? You know who she is. I know who she is. We all know, yet she’s been given the highest quarters in the Queen’s tower. Is it not our duty to tell the other Queens?” Despite the nature of the things she said, she did not raise her voice. There was a struggle between calm and storm, but she walked the boundary with care. For that, Claymore would grant her a response.

  “It is not our duty to question. Do we run to the other Queens with a list of all the things the others have done? It will not be the first time one has asked for the transfer of a prisoner. If you worry about the nature of this one, your position among the Aegis should remind you that worry is not something we can afford.” There was no room in the captain’s words for argument, and Glaive fell silent once more.

  Shishpar stepped forward next, and he placed the short, blunt mace on the table in the same way that Glaive had done. The details present in the eight-flanged head amazed Claymore even now, after decades of serving beside him. Whereas Glaive was reckless with her words, the man weighed each one before speaking, needing the others to understand the roll of his thoughts. “It is one of our principles to do what must be done, even when the others cannot. Last time this wild woman was in the world, she and those she allied with were halfway successful in undermining our authority.” His palms rested against the table as he leaned forward, inches from his weapon. “They took our beliefs and crushed them in their hands. What if she intends to do it again? Will we be known as the Aegis who fell for their wolfling ways a second time?”

  That was the very worry that had begun to blossom inside of Claymore, noxious gases coming from the thought. It would choke them, but they would not let such danger spread to the others. “We must simply ensure that does not happen. We have the knowledge the others did not; we have the benefit of history within our hearts. We will watch her and stop any plans from coming to fruition.”

  Maul and Falchion stepped forward together, and the two men stared a moment before Falchion decided it was his turn to speak. Maul’s shadow alone was enough to swallow his lean companion, yet somehow, they were comfortable beside each other, communicating with only a flare of the eyebrows and a shift of the feet. Neither set down their weapons, and the curved sword and huge hammer were almost as formidable as the ones who held them.

  “‘Ou think we can control the wild?” Falchion started.

  “We have only ever tamed it, and we will only ever continue to try such a thing,” Maul added, nodding slowly along.

  The pair fell as silent as the cells at the Citadel had been before this mess began.29 Maul and Falchion exchanged another look, but whatever message they received from one another allowed each to step back. The captain clasped their hands together, trying to steady the unusual bout of nerves.

  “The Queens all know,” Claymore said.

  Claymore did something they had never done before as captain — they lied. There were a dozen excuses they could have come up with to explain their reason to lie: to protect the bond between the Aegis, to ensure each continued their job without question, to believe in the five principles they adhered to. Each excuse would have been a lie as well. Claymore was simply tired of the debate, and instead of withering beneath the tension, Claymore’s trust in the Queen of the Summer Isles had only spread. They had to believe in her, for if she led Claymore astray at this point, everything the shield had fought for would shatter.

  The Aegis listened, quiet and eager to believe.

  “Truth is not absolution. Knowing this should change nothing, but I hope that it silences the doubt in your hearts. If you still hold on to it, speak to the Queen of the Summer Isles at your own peril. Doubt has never been favored among the stars.” It was with a shaky breath that Claymore picked up their weapon and the rag, cleaning the blade once more. Silence returned, comforting in its familiarity, yet Claymore felt the change of the air, present in the heat of their ears and the lightheadedness behind their brow.

  Come morning, the shields had settled into routine once more. By order of the Queen, they would take the prisoner out at dawn for her daily walk, careful the woman’s cutting words and cold calculations did not punch a hole through their forces. In the books of the past history of the Aegis, such tales had been recorded — few enough times so that they were forgotten by the masses but too many to be forgotten by the group’s own descendants. Shields crumbling, words forming into lies, values compromised… Claymore would not allow repetitions to occur in their time as captain.

  When morning finally fought its way over the Citadel’s walls, the group was put to their first test. It came in the form of the wolfling, donning the clothes of a mainland woman. Ah, but a wolf in sheep’s skin was twice as deadly, and Caliana was comfortable in the clothes. Without the dirt clinging to her, she looked almost harmless, but almost was a dangerous word. Where some would see fashion in the way the woman’s dusty hair was twisted atop her head, Claymore only saw how convenient such a style would be in a fight, loose strands being easy to grab. Where some would see fitted trousers made of fine leather, Claymore only saw how sturdy they would be during travel — and how easy it would be to conceal weapons beneath the pant legs.

  The captain did not like this in the slightest, but the Queen of the Summer Isles gave specific instructions: walk the prisoner around the gardens once a day at a random time before locking her in her chambers once more.30 Not even Caliana seemed aware for the reasoning behind the Queen’s orders, and the walk began with two iron wills clashing together.

  Claymore, insisting they follow orders; Caliana, insisting they would do no such thing.

  “Oi, as much as I appreciate seeing gray skies and big fuckin’ walls, I’ve got the same view from my lovely chambers,” the wolfling complained. Two guards walked in front of the pair, two guards walked behind the pair. Claymore kept a hand on the hilt of their arming-sword, careful to both listen to the words she said and the meaning behind them. “If you wanted to inspire my creativity, I suggest taking me beyond those big fuckin’ walls and to the real life o’ the place. Ah, I can almost smell the stench o’ the city instead of these goddamn flowers. The colors are damn near blinding.”

  Claymore had no idea how to handle such complaints. The arrangement was a far cry from the hopelessness of the prison, and irritation flickered in their eyes.

  “You should give thanks,” they said. “The skies may be gray, but we have learned a hundred different names for how versatile gray can be. The walls may loom large and foreboding, but they remind us of the dangers that lurk behind them.”

  “And who should I thank, mi’guard? The man I gave my heart to and left? The women who found me after and tossed me in the cell? You? I’ll be thankin’ none o’ them. My manners died a long time ago.” She snorted. “You think I can be tamed simple as that? More than forty years in a cell, give me warm food, take me outdoors, and suddenly, I’m a mainland folk again? I gave up my mate; I didn’t give up my pride.”

  Claymore hummed a vague agreement. Arguments with someone under their command were typically frowned upon, and it was as good enough excuse as any for them to fall silent.

  Caliana held to no such laws, and the complaints p
ersisted until they neared the end of their walk. With a sudden gasp, Caliana stared wide-eyed at the walls, as if sunlight had pierced the veil of gray clouds for the first time in decades with a message just for her. Claymore drew their weapon, searching for the source of the gasp. The other Aegis fell in line around the wolfling, determined to both protect and defend.

  To their surprise, Caliana let out a burst of her cackling laughter. The sound was as horrific out in the open as it was in the depths of her cage, and it did little to comfort any of those trying to protect her. The hairs on Claymore’s arms stood on edge.

  “I’m sorry — thought I saw somethin’ on the wall. My mistake.” Once again careful to listen to both the words she said and the meaning behind them, Claymore noticed how Caliana’s gaze flickered to the high points of the walls, even as her laughter faded. The rest of the Aegis relaxed, but the captain did not put away their arming-sword.

  Without any other commotion, the prisoner was returned to her chambers and the door locked behind her. Glaive and Shishpar left to make their way to the southeast throne room, their duties taking them to the Queen of Stone’s corridor. Maul and Falchion drifted in the opposite direction toward the lower town, ready to give blessings to the common folk. Claymore took a different route, procrastinating their daily prayers to make the ascent to the very points in the walls Caliana Sekhon could not help but stare at.

  The guard posts were on the far ends of the walls, but the area Claymore walked on had long been unused and forgotten. The scene of the city stretched far and wide in every direction, each building blending in with the next — with six brilliant exceptions. The towers of the Queens stood tall and proud, jutting above the nearby alleys with forceful beauty. The towers were furious, the towers were passion. In the center point, there rose the panopticon as a dark reminder that all was not peace; prisoners rotted inside. Claymore pulled their attention away, searching for whatever it was that had elicited a reaction from the wolfling.

  They saw nothing but the cracks in the stone.

  Chapter 8: The Wilds

  “As exultation takes your breath, remember who will give it unto you again.”

  Death’s Lament, 17.26

  ARISTA:

  Illias mistook the village for the Citadel as he neared the edges.

  Before this day, the largest place Illias had ever traveled was a small town that his people traded with before each winter. More than a hundred lived there, which was more people than he had ever seen until the Erie-folk began gathering. Olena could never spend more than an hour’s time in the town before she grew claustrophobic, and although Illias never stayed much longer either, he had a habit of bringing those they traded with extra gifts — it was a brief connection with another world.

  This village was more than twice as large, and no excited faces appeared at the doorway in response to his arrival. He supposed that they had nothing to be frightened of at the approach of a single traveler. It felt wrong to think of himself as a lone traveler, with his heart a league away, but it only hardened his resolve to pass unnoticed. Buildings loomed tall, but the area itself was far too clear and open to give him a sense of security. Trees had been clear-cut to make way for impermanent buildings, and the flat distance that stretched around him suffocated him more than his home ever could. It was as if the structures on either side of the road watched him, wary of his intents.

  How could he and Olena have been born here?

  Illias had not meant to find the pub, but it appeared to be the only place open and filled to the brim with other travelers. Clinging tightly onto the bag slung over his shoulder, he found an open seat at the end of the bar. Every scuffle of boot on the wood floor caused him to eye over the crowd suspiciously. He had stepped into a foreign world, and he was as wary as it as it seemed to be of him. One of the two bartenders approached him, bent with age and voice harsh with use.

  “Oi, watchoo want, mate?”

  The phrase of such intimate familiarity caused Illias’s eyes to widen, and his hand flew across the bar to grab hold of the old man by the collar of his blouse. A hush fell over the hum of the place, for if there was one sacred rule to their pub, it was not to touch the one serving the drinks. Illias’s attempt at remaining as an inconspicuous traveler died with the hush.

  “You aren’t my mate,” he explained in a tight voice. Every one of his senses was vibrating in warning, and in the place where Olena usually watched his back, there was nothing but emptiness to guard him.

  A hand rested on his forearm, and he turned to see the other bartender, a younger blond, smiling softly toward him. The blond edged closer toward the pair, slowly placing himself between Illias and the old man. He was large, with muscles defined by the shape of hard work, but there was a softness as he spoke that contrasted his apparent strength. “He talks to everyone like that. You’ll have to forgive him.” Immediately, Illias released his hold and settled once more onto his stool. The blond let out a puff of air, sending sandy strands of hair on his forehead scattering, and nodded his head slightly. “This happens at least once a day. You’d think Tapster would learn, but I’m not certain he’s capable.” His smile grew, even as the old man — the one he called Tapster — hobbled away, muttering as he went.

  “He named me mate,” Illias mumbled back.

  The man filled up a pint and set it down in front of Illias, shrugging. “He calls a lot of people mate. It certainly beats calling them assholes. I take it you’re not from around here?”

  Illias shook his head in answer. The drink tasted bitter, but it was refreshing nonetheless after near a week of traveling. His fingers tapped along the edges of the glass, and he could not help the paranoid looks he continued to give the room. Even with his spear within such easy access across his back, his entire body itched for a sanctuary the pub could not give him.

  “Don’t worry, we get a lot of folk around here — a traveler’s pass, some call it.” The blond tried to return to work, picking up a dusty rag to polish the counter, but he remained close. “Others would call it a shithole, but as someone who grew up here, I have to defend it and say that it’s our shithole.”

  “It seems a hard place to live.”

  The man paused in his half-hearted cleaning, brows furrowed. “How so?”

  “In a place so large, how do you provide for each other?” Illias knew they operated under different rules and customs the closer they got to the Citadel, but he couldn’t quite envision how. “I walked in here, and I saw only strangers staring back, blank and greedy eyes. Seeing something like that every day would rob me of life.”

  “I’m certain others would say the same of where you’re from,” the man replied carefully.

  “I’m certain they would.” There was a slight grin on Illias’s face as he continued. “There’s a birth house around here, isn’t there? In all honestly, I was born there, so what I said remains true.”

  “There hasn’t been a birth in more than twenty years. I was nearly ten when it happened — and still counting my years, if you can believe it.” He leaned forward across the bar, biting his lower lip as if he wasn’t sure if he should continue. “Birthmates, I was told, although I never got to see them, and wild as the untamed lands.”

  “A boy and a girl,” Illias said.

  “Welcome home.” He topped off Illias’s glass with a nod of approval.

  Taking a long drink, Illias settled more comfortably on his stool, his main point in coming hanging over him. It was an abrupt shift in conversation, but he felt the importance of time around him in a way he never had before.

  “Do the Queens come here?”

  The man chuckled at the sudden question, not unkindly, and shook his head. “They tend to avoid any region outside their city. They have work to do, I’m certain — although they do have centuries to do it…” He raised his voice. “Wouldn’t that be something, Tapster? One of the Queens in your tavern?” The old man grunted, and the bartender’s smile slowly faded. “It’s best to w
atch your tongue in places like these, especially questioning about the Queens. You seem the type to say something rash.”

  Illias looked down at his garments: a patchwork of furs and stitches that blended in far better in the forest than they did in such a brightly lit place. The blond’s own clothing was carefully pressed, and although the material bore some strain of use, it was brightly colored. In comparison to the others around him, it was clear Illias was different. He shifted slightly, making his plans for a quick exit.

  “You’ve nothing to fear from me, wolfling. As I said, we’ve gotten many types in here before. It’s a safe place.” The man went back to his attempts at cleaning, the amused spark remaining even as he turned away.

  The offer of safety sounded strange from someone unknown, but it was the name that rang heavy in the air. Illias’s entire frame stiffened as if he had been physically struck. “Don’t call me that.” It was a name given to turn them into beasts rather than men, and it was as powerful as a slap coming from a chained-folk’s lips.31 “Illias is my name.”

  All matters of jest drained from the man’s face, and Illias realized a second too late what his mistake had been. The man wiped his hands on his apron, whispered something beneath his breath to the old bartender, and left his spot behind the bar. “Come with me,” was the only explanation he gave to Illias. He nodded toward an empty booth, far away from the ears of other travelers. “Please.”

  Illias followed. Of course, he followed. Sliding into the spot across from the blond, he regarded him warily, but still, there was no hint of ill will in those blue eyes. If anything, he seemed to be regarding Illias in the same way Illias was regarding him. They were in a stalemate, and for far too long, they simply sat in silence, waiting to see who would break through it first. The bartender’s worry cracked before Illias’s stubbornness, and the man spoke.

  “You’ll need another name.”

  Illias was the name of a dead king — a king who died nobly, in a way no other of the Erie-folk had managed. It seemed damn near sacrilegious to change that identity, especially when so many of his people carried his name in their mouths. They held his power. Well, them and this soft spoken bartender from a village he couldn’t name. “I have one.”