Revolutionary Veins

by Rey Balor

  He knew the Erie-folk were leagues away, but there were clans of other free people scattered throughout the wild lands, each with their own methods of clinging to freedom. Their King, Illias’s father, had united many of them, but not all wished to fall in line with his policies.40 They thirsted for impure killings, made in retribution for the old Kings they would always remember. Illias clutched his spear tighter as he ran from the chambers, knowing they would not differentiate between him and the rest of the townsfolk.

  When he entered the main room again, he heard their horses, and a jolt traveled through him, sudden and terrifying. Never in their history had the Erie-folk used horses.41 The beasts were rare as it was, but in the forests, they were more hindrance than help. By the time winter rolled around and a thick layer of snow blanketed the area, his people migrated to the south, and with a limited supply of food, they could not afford the upkeep of such large animals. He did not trust anything that looked at him with such vapid eyes, but more importantly, not fighting on foot was a show of cowardice.

  “They aren’t Erie-folk,” he said to Hops as he rushed past the blond to the fight outside. No, fight insinuated that each side had an equal holding; this was slaughter, so reminiscent of the attacks on his own people he had lived through.

  There was panic. None paid him attention. The false wolflings laughed at the townsfolk. Their horses pranced on the ground. Smoke! Smoke was in the air. Illias could not catch his breath; he trembled. Surely, he owed these townsfolk nothing. All it would take to slip away was moving off the path and ignoring the yells. Instead, his feet moved in the opposite direction, toward them. There was no other option.

  The first warrior he came across was perched high on his horse, and Illias’s suspicions were confirmed. These weren’t Erie-folk at all. The man’s face was smeared with mud,42 his furs were animals Illias had never seen woven in a way he did not recognize, and the man carried a torch in his hands. The smell of smoke followed him. It was not the ways of the Erie-folk to burn and destroy; that duty had fallen time and time again to the reaching army of the Citadel.

  The man swung his sword just as Illias threw his spear. Briefly, almost as if outside of the battle, Illias noticed how shiny the man’s sword was. Far, far too shiny to have been in the wild. The man missed. Illias did not.43 His spear pierced the man’s chest, leaving a gaping hole as he was knocked to the ground.

  In the wilds, they valued life.

  Near the Citadel, they respected only death.

  Ignoring the chaos blossoming around him, Illias dropped to his knees beside the warrior. Blood was bubbling in the man’s mouth. For as many times as he tried to speak, Illias could make out no words. He filled the silence for the man: “I’ll see you in the stars.”

  He waited before removing his spear, the tip remaining firmly planted inside the man’s chest.44 It would be a slow death, but a death found in battle was still better than anything merciful Illias could give him. Standing straight again, it was as if Illias was walking back into a dream. The shouts sounded distant, and the battle, if it could be called that, raged elsewhere. All around, buildings were being licked by an uncontrollable flame. The moment rushed him with a sudden clarity.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  “—Roam,” Hops’s voice pierced the smoke, and the blond barreled through, miraculously unharmed. He paused at the sight of the dying man, paling visibly further. For as sickly as he looked in that moment, he pressed forward steadily. “You need to leave. If they don’t kill you, the people here will. Wolflings have just become the enemy, and everyone knows that’s what you are. If they don’t, Tapster will tell them. You need to leave now.”

  Logically, Illias knew this, but an answer to this logic was not what came from him. “I need you to get a message to my spica.”

  “What?”

  Illias grabbed onto the man’s shirt, hazel eyes meeting blue — fire meeting ice. “Her name’s Olena Rivers, you hear me? I’m telling that to you because I’m trusting you. Your tavern’s up in flames, Hops. More will follow, but the Erie-folk — the true Erie-folk, not these savages — need to know. I need to get to the Citadel, and I know no one else. You have to tell them that chained-folk are posing as us. That they’re ruining the name of freedom, and I don’t know why. I won’t beg you, but I need you to say yes.”

  He knew that Hops had only left the village once in his young life, but he did not smell the smoke in the same way that Illias did. Illias accepted it as a fact of life, and Hops rebelled against it with everything he was. Surely, it was just a few homes that were burning. Surely, it was not his home. They could rebuild… They could survive… Illias had seen such a reaction before.

  Not all wars happened with the clanging of weapons and the exertion of muscles; half of them took place in the pause between breaths.

  “I’m sorry, Roam.” Without another word, Hops made his way to the fires.

  Illias forced himself to take a deep gulp of air and ignored the burn of his lungs, which clenched in protest of the smoke. He was used to more ash than this; they all were. He reached into his bag and pulled out another point for his spear, fastening it with practiced hands. The pause was over, and the battle would continue.

  Nearby, the tavern crumbled.

  SPICA:

  “Now, I’d like to think we’ve grown rather fond of each other in the week I’ve been under your command, princess. I’m not saying this to guilt you — not unless that would work.” Ranger’s smile was as sharp as her tongue, and Olena only wanted it to end. She sat on the boulder she had chosen as a perch and braided the dark frizz of her hair, all the while glaring at the other woman. Peace was something she had forgotten was possible to exist as the spy continued on and on. Never had she known someone so exquisitely annoying, and beneath the roll of her eyes, a part of her remained impressed. Ranger pressed on because that was what she always did. “Alright, you caught me: I’m entirely saying this to guilt you. You see, I’d rather not die, and even with the promise of your protection and blah, blah, blah, that wolfling trial fiasco only showed that you can’t protect me from all the people I’ve pissed off. Before I’ve even given away any information! How rude is that?”

  Olena’s hands twitched in her braid. “Did you miss all the threats I gave you?”

  “Did you miss the fact I know exactly what information about your birthmate has been passed on?” The woman held up her bound hands in an exasperated gesture. Every movement she made was exasperated. Watching her was watching a story all its own: every moment, every facial gesture, was a production. “At least you’re smart enough to know when you’ve been given a gift. It’s like the others don’t even recognize I can help you out. I wonder if it has to do with the fact they’ve got pine nuts for brains? After all, I am a rather amazing find, aren’t I?”

  It would be entirely less frustrating if the scout wasn’t right about these things — not about the amazing part, however, as Olena could hardly stand to look at her without feeling that now-familiar headache sprout. Several others in camp remained determined to see Ranger dead without any question, but Olena desperately wanted the information she held. The five days since the trial had not been enough to gain anything from Ranger, and the others in camp were getting restless. But if Illias was in danger… Olena’s heart froze at the very thought, but she could not let Ranger see the effect. She simply gritted her teeth and listened to the woman talk on and on, hoping she would give something away. For as annoying as she had proven, she was just as smart, and there was still no information from her.

  “What do you want then?” Olena found herself asking. She sat nearby, ensuring none would claim her prisoner for their own. Most respected her authority far too much to tempt the fates, but a scout, one who had watched them for more time than they knew, had a way of bringing out the worst in individuals.

  Ranger leaned back against a tree, fingertip tapping her chin in thought. She did not even bother to conceal the broad grin on her face
as she mulled over the question, and had Olena just come upon the scene, she would have thought the scout had just been offered the pick of the world. “I want a picnic to start with. I don’t mean food thrown on the ground either. I want a feast in my honor. Maybe pig? I haven’t had pig in so long — oh, my mouth is watering just thinking about it. Have you had pig lately? And I certainly don’t mean that fucker… What’s his name? Riker? I hate him, I hope you know. You deserve so much better.”

  Olena hated Riker too, considering she had once nearly murdered him after finding him plundering spoils from a town they had passed through.45 She took his pinky finger for that one and promised to take the whole damn hand if she caught him at it again. It’s not our way to steal from those who’ve earned their share, she hissed, and they’d left his pinky behind with the items as payment. Not wanting to share any information of her own, she simply grunted in return. The scout was much too observant for Olena’s liking, but Olena would hardly bend for her and boost the other’s ego further.

  “After my picnic, let’s see…” Ranger didn’t even attempt to hold back now, and her smile somehow managed to widen even further. The freckles on the tip of her nose only gave her the appearance of mischief, not deadliness. Even her scars weren’t able to make her look threatening. There was only that damn smugness, and Olena felt her headache growing. “I think a nap, and I mean a nap in a real bed — one with warm blankets and feathered pillows. Do you know how long I’ve gone without one? Well, no, of course you don’t, considering that’s a piece of information I’m not so eager to sell you. You see, I need assurances I’ll live after our little exchange.”

  Olena took the time to move from her spot on the boulder, walk over to where Ranger sat, grab the woman by the scruff of her neck, lift her to her feet, and stare at her for what felt like far too long before releasing her. All words effectively robbed of the scout, Olena was left with a brief moment’s silence.

  “My word’s good enough,” Olena answered, meaning it. Ranger snorted with laughter, but it was a laughter that quickly quieted at Olena’s expression.

  “I’ll tell you one thing that you already know: that idiot birthmate of yours is in a world of trouble marching off to the Citadel like that. You see, princess, it’s my job to know secrets, and those secrets go beyond what I know of you. I’m rather interested in those I serve too.” Something flickered in the woman’s gaze that captured Olena’s full attention. “Our Queens have some rather fun plans, and I’m afraid, if they find him, Illias Rivers can factor into absolutely all of them. If he meets with the Queens, I doubt he’ll be making it out of there — a shame, really. Between you and him, I think he’s the prettier one.”

  Instead of returning to her rock, Olena took a seat beside the other woman, half hoping she would say something more. That unusual anxiety had begun to wash over Olena at the warning, but the scout was one of the chained-folk — she had no idea just how resourceful the Erie-folk could be.

  “Do you got a birthmate, woman?” Olena asked.

  The smile Olena was given in return was pointed, but everything about the individual was that way: her gaze, her collarbones, the nails on her fingers. For someone whose job it was to spy, she had been designed as an aggressive weapon with utter perfection. When the Erie-folk finally achieved death, they would join the night sky as new, blazing stars, but Olena could not help but feel that Ranger would be trapped on earth, born again as the teeth of the wolves she likened the Erie-folk to.

  “I had one — a twin actually.” If children were rare, it was nothing compared to the miracle of twins. A morbid desire to know what happened possessed Olena, and she leaned closer, wide-eyed. Ranger moved forward an inch in response, sharp smile growing wider in a sickening fashion. From so close a distance, Olena could finally see that something was twisted in Ranger’s soul, on display for her to revel in. “I killed him.”

  Color drained from Olena’s face; innocence broke, and her curiosity was replaced immediately by disgust of the highest degree. Even her distaste towards the five Queens was little in comparison to her expression now. She shook with it. Ranger leaned back against the tree with smug satisfaction.

  “Khalsa! Khalsa!” The call rang out from nearby, and Olena was to her feet in relief that she would not hear anything else. She gripped her bow tightly in hand, ready for any sign of attack that might accompany her people’s calls for her. One of the elders was shoving someone forward, and for a wild moment, she feared it would be Illias. Had he come back in failure? Had they discovered something new? It was only when the man grew nearer, stature several inches taller than Illias, that she allowed her hands to relax on her weapon.

  “Aye?”

  “He was brought to us by one of King’s groups — been asking for you by name, so far as I can tell.” Trap led the prisoner, and he gritted his teeth with clear distrust and mild hatred. “Some wanted to kill him; all wanted to see what you would do. Here he is, and no longer my problem.”

  The blond was shoved forward, and from the look of him, he had come from the highest rows of the Citadel. His clothes were well made, his skin unblemished, and his hands lacked the callouses so usual among their people. She hated him almost immediately. It was a deep hatred, and it traced back to the origins of everything they knew, from when they were first forged from the mud of the earth.

  “Speak.”

  The man’s hands were balled into fists at his side, and he couldn’t seem to determine where he wanted to look. “Illias sent me,” he rushed out. She realized he was not balling his hands in defiance but instead ringing them together, and she was all the more suspicious of him for it. “My name is Hops. We met… Well, I haven’t known him long, but he… Well, saved my life, although I doubt he knows it. He… Oh, I don’t know where to begin.”

  “He’s always had an effect on people.” A twitch of fondness appeared in Olena’s expression, and it was the only encouraging sign she allowed.

  Hops’s gaze finally settled on her, and he gave a small nod. “It wasn’t just that. They burned my home to the ground. I saw what they did, and I told him I had to stay to rebuild. They refused to allow it, said it was a warning. They were determined to ruin us, and this felt…important. What he asked of me.” She gestured for him to continue. “People are posing as wol— Erie-folk and attacking towns up and down the road. I’m not certain what it means, but Illias seemed to think it was worth abandoning his mission to tell you. He asked me to come instead, and where else did I have to go? My people are… They’re scattered, and yours are being villainized. If you don’t believe me, I’ll leave now. If you do, all I ask in return is some sort of explanation. It doesn’t have to be about whatever it is you plan. I’ve been alive long enough that I understand it’s not my place to ask when you don’t trust me. I just need to know why he gave his name so easily, and why I want nothing more than to do the same.”

  Here he was, a man who represented everything the Citadel stood for, and he was asking her for guidance in the very ritual that separated them so distinctly. She felt that sudden hatred in her heart lessen, if only slightly, and she turned away from him to face Ranger once more. The woman eyed the scene with rapt attention, and Olena knew that the knowledge in her waited with equal eagerness to be heard.

  “To choose to give is to choose to be free. Now, take some of my food and sit.” The crowd that had gathered relaxed at the offering of peace she gave to the man, and he moved from the position of prisoner to guest. “There’s a lot I need to know.”

  Chapter 15: The Space Station

  “The dark, the dark, the dark.”

  Death’s Lament, 60.99

  The note determined to decide the fate of Pat and the others remained tucked into Pat’s shirt throughout the funeral processes, resting against the unsteady motion from her chest. She and the other Light Bringers carried Nikola’s body together, all lost in their own thoughts. The old man was far lighter than he ought to be, and they laid him in the docking room of
the station. None had experienced a death before that they could remember,46 and they were left overwhelmed in its wake. They shuffled close together in a pack, eyeing the dead man as if he was about to sit up and lecture them for moving him while he rested.

  Of course, Nikola remained motionless. Pat chewed on her lower lip, mind on the capsule in orbit so close to their own — the Atlantis. Secrets were a difficult thing to keep in a place like the station, but for once, she did not offer even a hint that she carried one. To her surprise, Isaac stepped forward, and tears gleamed brightly in his eyes.

  “Well, that’s how this goes, I suppose,” he said. The others nodded vehemently, glad someone had taken the reins — even if that someone seemed as uncertain as any of the others. It struck Pat suddenly how young they all were: at fourteen years, they had hardly experienced enough to give a resounding eulogy. “On earth, Death forgets about you. In space, Death ain’t so kind. I suppose that’s why they’re all so keen to get up here, and we’re so keen to get down.” Where it touched her skin, the note turned cold as Isaac forced himself on. “Nikola took care of us, taught us not to worry about our job until we needed to. I wish he was here to tell us what to do still. We’ll make you proud, Nik. We’ll take care of the mission.”

  They all filed out of the cramped quarters, and the door hissed shut behind them. A warning beep began to ring from within, but as the outermost door slowly opened, the vacuum of space silenced all sound. Immediately, Nikola flew from the station. He was gone as if he had never existed, and Isaac’s tears spilled over. Pat only felt an ache inside — something deep and echoing that would not make itself known in any other way. There were no rites of passage for them and no careful instructions laid out; there was only a hazy future, made hazier by Nikola’s lack of answers in life.