Revolutionary Veins

by Rey Balor

  “Mine is Hops,” the blond continued gently, as if sensing what a delicate subject they were on. “Maybe one day you’ll know my real one, maybe one day you won’t. Out here, people guard such a secret with their life. I’ve never even heard a real name until…” A flush crept up his neck, which Illias regarded curiously. “You call me Hops because that’s what I am. I make drinks; I serve drinks. My entire life is defined by this tavern, and my name reflects that, see? I know it’s not my place to say these things, but you asked after the Queens. If you intend to find them, you’ll need to guard your name with just as much care. If they don’t use it against you, someone else will.”

  Long ago — before his father had begun uniting the Erie-folk to march together, before war boiled in their blood, and before marks of strength became so numerous along their skin — Illias had not chosen the path of the warrior. He made a promise to himself to take his mother’s last name instead, Savi Litero. The Literos were quiet folk, skilled in the ways of storytelling and healing, whereas his father’s folk, the Rivers, were warriors and hunters. People would gather around their campfires to hear him speak and weave tales, and he thought his path was chosen for him as Illias Litero. Even though things had changed and the surname Rivers was attached to him for good, that storyteller existed in him still, and it reared its head at Hops’s words.

  “You’d let a name define you? Mine does that. Mine does more than that. It offers me a chance of greatness, a chance to match Blue’s Night in brightness. What would you have me change it to? Some chained-folk word for beast?” Illias scoffed. “I’ll continue on my way, Blue Eyes, and you’ll hold my name, same as my people. I hope you treat it right.”

  “Illias, please.” Goosebumps coated Hops’s arms at the trueborn name. “You won’t make it far otherwise. I told you I’ve met other wolfli— other of your people. They come; they die dishonorable, horrible deaths in the Citadel; and the Citadel blames us for letting them get that far. We’ve been taxed more than any other town, all for trying to remain neutral in this strange stalemate your two groups are in. This is a place of peace, and peace is all I want. I’d be willing to give you another free drink for it.” It was the attempted smile that loosened Illias’s stubbornness; they both wanted the same thing, didn’t they? They longed for that allusive glimpse of peace.

  “My father goes by King when he goes to villages. That’s all I know,” Illias said.

  Hops leaned back against the booth, stunned by the title. “Oh.”

  “I’ve earned their respect, same as him. I suppose that makes me a prince.”

  “Oh.”

  “‘Course, Prince suggests I’d take over if he fell, which isn’t how things would work. They’d vote, and my sister’s more of the leader-type anyways,” he mused as he continued. “Still, if I had to choose…”

  “How’s Gad?” Hops quickly interrupted.

  “Gad?”

  “Gad, Rover, Roam, Wanderer — take your pick. Forgive me for speaking so brazenly, but the name is supposed to protect you. Prince does the opposite, and according to any around here, there are only five true Queens that are the five points to the one true star. Say otherwise, and you may be taken for a revolutionist.”

  “I’ve never learned the skill of shutting my mouth.”

  “I’m beginning to see that.”

  Illias rubbed his chin, the prickles of his beard tickling his palm. Hops waited, patient as only a bartender used to listening to the troubles of others could be.

  “Roam, then,” Illias decided. “It doesn’t sound terrible, although there’s a debate to be made about that.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Roam.”

  “Sure, Blue Eyes.”

  The men stood from their seats, and Hops cast something of a fond smile. Illias doubted that he was given the freedom to talk openly often and could glimpse his desire to say more. Instead, the bartender swallowed his words, nodded his head, and headed back to work. As soon as he made it behind the bar, the old man attacked him with frenzied whispered, but Hops waved him off with a flourish of the hand.

  Illias could rest easy for now.

  SPICA:

  The sun had already turned the dark gray skies lighter by the time Olena had risen in the morning. She tried not to concern herself with what such a silence in the world could mean for her spica, leagues away in a foreign land, but the worry began to move through her nonetheless, making her usual impatience flare into explosive anger. One of the warriors still sported a black eye from her, and the rest quickly learned to give her a wide berth.

  She sat atop a boulder, fastening tips to her arrows. The small points had been fashioned by her mother and other elders of the community, using obsidian and bone to craft something deadly enough to use. Her grip on the tools was tight enough to cause knuckles to pale, but the force did nothing to match the scowl she gave. The wolf skin draped over her shoulders demonstrated a stature that none in her small camp could match, so she was left alone — but being alone was something she had never been accustomed to. It was constantly pressing against her shoulders, causing her work on the weapons to become far sloppier than it otherwise would have been, and curses left her lips more often than anything else.

  When she finally could do no more, she shoved the products of her work into her bag and slung it over her shoulder. There was nothing like the calm of a forest to clear her mind when thoughts began crashing in. Seeing the same trees that had survived centuries before her and would survive centuries after filled her with a sense of acceptance that no words could give.32

  She nodded to a few individuals as she passed beyond the boundary of their camp, but none dared to try to stop her. While their appointed king went to recruit more to their cause worlds away, she held authority here. The marks along her collarbones, glimpsed beneath her wolf skin, showed her worth to those who doubted; the things she had done remained with her, a far quieter reminder of her acceptance than even the woodlands.

  Trees swallowed her whole, and the scent of man faded the deeper she walked. There was only the rush of a nearby stream and the calls of the birds from one tree to the next. Down by the brook, she began to find her calm once more. They had been following the small stream for weeks now, and she could breathe in the scent of the currents with a familiar ease.

  Her heart may have been in another place, but she had not fought her way to second-in-command by heart alone. She plucked up a piece of wood from the forest’s floor and began to draw structures in the muddy earth, starting with the Citadel and spiraling outward. It came to life from stories, as she had never stepped foot in the great city herself, and the longer she continued, the more meticulous the drawings became. They were not made in the image of beauty but in the image of a carefully laid design — the beginnings of a strategy. Even her father, king that he was, could not make such bold claims. He carried the charisma, but she had always been brilliant in the most important way the head of an army could be.

  From the age of twelve, she had been going on raids against those who trampled upon the wild lands, and from the age of twelve, she had been coming away victorious. Those trained, however little, by the Citadel used tactics fit for a city; they marched forward and reveled in the order of their plans. She utilized the world around her for her benefit, and she understood that sometimes chaos was needed.

  In annoyance, she kicked at her dirt drawings, blurring the edges but not destroying them.

  At the center of her Citadel image, there rested the five points of the castle where the five Queens waited. She imagined Illias there now, attempting to lower his head in humility. They would want him to bow with the rest of the chained-folk, but he never would. She made a mark through the drawing. If they harmed him, the place would burn to the ground. The majority of her makeshift map was the free lands she stood on now, and she imagined her army coming into being from the very earth. The first Erie-folk were said to be made from mud, but they were made of rock now. She left that part untouched.
The final part of her map was the countless villages that stood between them and the Citadel. She was certain some were in the wrong place, but enough of her scouts had returned with information that she had a clearer idea than any other Erie-folk before her. For now, she only stared at those marks.

  A snap of a branch had her clutching onto her weapon faster than any person had a right to move. Instinct was the guiding principle in the wilds, and she trusted hers now. She lowered herself closer to the ground, counting on the furs she had worn to keep her camouflaged. The sound had been too heavy to be a small creature — perhaps, a deer, bear, or wolf hunting out the ones who slayed their brethren.

  Another snap, this time followed by the gentlest pull of metal on a sheath, had her convinced otherwise. She took on the role of hunter, pulling herself up the tree that leaned over the stream and clasping her bow, holding her arrows in her draw hand. She moved from defense to offense with ease. There was little doubt that the other individual was skilled, but by the shift of their feet, they were still unused to the terrain that the wilds presented. It left little options for who it was, and she prepared to nock an arrow, breath held as she waited. Enemy, silent and menacing; enemy, greedy and arrogant; enemy, so unknowing and close to death.

  In many ways, it was like hunting an animal. It required endless patience as she waited for the creature to grow brave enough to chance the open. It required speed as she aimed. It required skill as she fired. There, the similarities ended, for in many ways, it was as different from hunting an animal as a thing could get. Humans were brilliant in their defiance of death, and the arrow she shot impaled itself into armor instead of skin.

  No longer carrying the thought of hiding, the individual took off at a full sprint. Olena leaped from her perch and landed lightly onto her feet, sprinting after the scout. They were headed toward the southern route — a twisting road that eventually spilled into the Citadel’s path. Anger fueled her as she chased her prey, for while Illias stood to make peace, they made acts of war against her. She would repay them dearly.

  Even as she ran, she was loading the next arrow. As if sensing the impending attack, the scout suddenly swerved and dove toward the ground. Olena was near enough to tell the scout was a woman, and she tossed her bow aside to avoid breaking it as she tackled the spy. With only her bare fists, she punched as hard as she could, ignoring how her bones cracked in protest of the action. She straddled the other woman as she continued to struggle, and when the scout reached for her fallen blade, a small dagger half the size of her forearm, Olena grabbed hold of a nearby rock and smashed it into her hand.

  The scout let out a howl of pain; Olena merely grimaced in determination.

  Snatching the blade before the woman could reach for it with her uninjured hand, Olena pressed the sharp edge to the spy’s throat. Immediately, the fight seemed to leave her, and she fell still beneath Olena. The only thing left alive in her was her glare, filled with shining defiance in dark brown irises. It was laughable that such an expression could be worn by a chained-folk that served the five Queens. Olena pressed the blade tighter.

  “I am going to kill you, girl. I’ll give you the dignity of choosing the manner of your death,” Olena hissed. It was more than they had done for the Erie-folk. “The more information you tell me, the purer your death will be.”

  The woman remained silent, lack of movement turned defiant in itself. A prick of blood appeared on her throat, and Olena could guess the very thoughts that raced through her head. The scout sought for a way to slip from her grasp, to overpower the warrior with her own strength before slipping away in the darkness of the trees. Knowing those who were frightened of the forest, Olena could feel the scout edging toward the stream, hoping its waters would rid her of any footprints to follow. As if agreeing with her suspicions, the woman’s eyes flickered over to the stream’s direction before resting once more on Olena.

  “I’ve never sliced a woman’s throat before. I wonder if she’d heal faster than she’d bleed out.” There was now a line of red instead of only a dot, but Olena paused before the line could spill over into a waterfall. Illias was the healer of the group, and she could almost hear him speaking to her —

  “Kill her, and you’ll have no information. Let her live, and we’ll show her the art of freedom.”

  Goddammit, her own thoughts hissed back. Carefully, she loosened her hold, and the woman sucked in air greedily.

  “It depends on how deep you cut,” the scout rasped out. That earned her a grin, although Olena remained pinning her. Grins would do little to erase the distrust fizzling between them, and both parties knew that the way this would end would be victory for one and defeat for the other. It was how the world functioned, turning ever onward. There would always be the predator and the prey. “I won’t give you the answers you’re wanting — not here and not now. Soon, maybe, but I’m still not sure you’re worth betraying the Queen for. Betrayal is a bit of a big deal up in the Citadel. Normally, they don’t treat those who do it with gold and sunshine, although I’m sure if you betrayed your people, you’d get that from them. Hardly fair if you ask me.”

  “I’ve earned my titles, you chained-folk. Could the same be said of you?”

  “A thousand times over.”

  Olena reached into her small pouch and pulled out a short rope to bind the other’s wrists together. She was none too gentle and ignored the wince when she moved the bleeding, broken hand. The cord dug into skin, and Olena tugged hard on it, certain the scout would be unable to slip free from the restraints before standing to her feet once more. Captives were rare; normally, enemies were left unconscious or wounded. Those who took a captive had to care for them, sentence them, and dole out the justice themselves. It was a responsibility few would bother with, and the knowledge rang in Olena’s mind as she pulled the scout to her feet, as loud as Illias’s voice had been.

  Olena picked up her bow from where it had been dropped, brushing the curve of it with a surprisingly delicate hand. “I still haven’t made up my mind for if I want to kill you or not,” she warned and slung the bow over her shoulder once more. The woman’s cheeks and neck were marred by white, faded scars that faded into the blotchy bruise forming from Olena’s attack. She flicked muddied, auburn strands from her sun-tanned face but did not otherwise signal she understood the blatant warning. “We’ve got a walk ahead of us, and I’ve been looking for someone I can take out my anger on. You step off the path I give you, and your head will come off your shoulders. You’ll never rest easy, and you’ll never join the stars.”

  “I never much cared for heights.” The scout didn’t earn Olena’s grin that time, and as she continued to speak, the careless humor remained. It irked the warrior in a way she could not describe, as if the woman couldn’t seem to grasp the direness of the situation she was in. “I’m Ranger, and as I’m certain you’ve guessed my function, I don’t feel too bad disclosing that information. It leaves us in a rather unique position, as it were. You see, I know your name — you’re far too liberal and loud with it — but I have no idea what to call you. Princess, perhaps? Although, princess seems fairly presumptuous, especially for your people.” She tossed her head back and laughed loudly, the sound echoing eerily in the trees around them. Despite her petite stature, the unnatural sound made her seem as large as the woods. “No, Princess doesn’t suit you at all.”

  “Shush,” Olena hissed, tugging hard on the binds.

  Ranger winced again at the pain but was determined to continue speaking, even if it was through gritted teeth. “I’ve been tracking your movements for quite some time, princess. Do you know how quiet I’ve been in that time? Quiet enough not to earn the attention of a single wolfling, which is quite the accomplishment if I do say so myself — which I clearly do. Do you know what I love most in the world? Well, that might not be proper for a princess’s ears, but the thing I love second most in the world is talking. I’ve nearly died out of boredom. For revolutionaries, you all are dreadfully dull.
It’s about time I have someone to talk to.”

  Olena stopped abruptly and turned toward the scout so that she could see the waves of annoyance flowing so brilliantly from her. “If you’re to call me anything, call me Khalsa. Princess is a term better fitting your Citadel, not the wild lands. If you’re to talk as you seem to love to do, tell me useful information. For example, how long were you watching us?”

  “Khalsa? Dear god, that has to be one of the worst names I’ve heard. No wonder you choose to go by your trueborn names,” Ranger said. Just as abruptly as Olena had stopped, she began walking again, pulling the woman along as if she was some sort of animal. “Unfortunately, I’m quite aware that my worth lies firmly on the information I hold, so I think I’ll keep that to myself for right now. You’ve already made it so wonderfully clear that you’d rather not kill me yet — thank you for that, by the way — so let’s just see where this goes, yes?”

  Olena snorted in answer. “You fucking chained-folk think you’re so smart. You toss out information and try to wash out your fear with all the pretty little facts you know. Does it make you feel less lonely to convince yourself of your own cleverness?” There was a cruel cut to her voice that she refused to apologize for. “There’s a secret you don’t know, little scout. These trees have stood for longer than even your Queens have been alive. Your body will help them grow tall and strong as you fade into history altogether. These woods are alive, and they don’t see you as the clever lady you think you are. They see you as future fuel, and it’s only a matter of time before you prove them right. Death may have forsaken us, but it’ll return — and it’ll return thirsty.”

  Olena ensured her steps continued to be quiet, even despite the fervor in her words, but Ranger had no such notion. She stomped, she cursed beneath her breath, and she slowed their journey. As if needing to say something, anything, to give herself the upper edge, she tried to push the Erie-folk further. “Oh, sounds just about as frightening as that birthmate of yours and his silly, silly plans. What was it?” Her voice slipped into a mocking thunder. “‘I’m going to go save the whole palace. Oh, murder is bad! Boo hoo!’ What was his name? Illias Rivers, wasn’t it? Suits him, honestly…”