by Rey Balor
Clutched to her stomach, it was finally clear that her hands were not empty. Caliana moved, and Claymore saw what she held so close — a handmade shiv, carved from the wooden leg of a furniture piece. She swung it in a sloppy attempt of an attack, skimming Claymore’s arm. The captain leaped backward and reached for their sword. Oblivion gleamed. As if deciding against another attempt, Caliana threw the shiv in their direction. While Claymore twisted out of the way, she darted for the door.
“The other shields are waiting—” Before Claymore’s warning could be fully delivered, they saw what it was that Caliana intended to do. She had not darted to the door in an effort to flee. She had used the distraction to pluck the keys from Claymore’s waist. The ring of keys dangled in her hand now; it was the sound of soft bells, the sound of a dozen freedoms. She turned to the window as her only form of escape. Claymore’s warning changed immediately. “If you jump, you’ll die!”
“Or I’ll live.”
Caliana sprinted toward the narrow outlook. As she neared the edge, she gripped onto a knot at the windowsill. It was a thin strip of sheet, tied together to another strip, and Caliana dove out the side holding onto it, ensuring she would not plummet immediately to her death. Bedsheets — they were bedsheets! How had Claymore not seen it?
Claymore chased after her, and when they leaned out the window, they saw the ripped remnants of a long length of sheets tied together. There was no Caliana at the end, and the makeshift line swung ominously like an executioner’s noose. Even on the ground below, Claymore could not see any hints of the wolfing. It was as if she had disappeared in the middle of the air, with no traces but her means of escape to remember her by.
“Death is testing me,” Claymore muttered. They turned away from the window, but they did not immediately call for the others. The wolfling deserved a moment’s head start.
Chapter 17: The Wilds
“Do not face the divine.”
Death’s Lament, 29.6
ARISTA:
It had taken one week of traveling and a very little amount of sleep to reach the home of the five Queens. Myth turned to life; warning turned to reality; imagination turned to concrete walls. The Citadel was brightness and little else. Illias’s head swam from looking upon it, and he was forced to squint at this large, sprawling, and utterly endless void of civilization. Three skulls grinned at him from the outer entrance; he did not slow to stare. All glimpses of the forest faded as he walked farther into the city, and the bustling life of the world around him prodded at each of his senses.
There was noise that drowned out all thought. Vendors called to their potential customers, and individuals bustled from one place to another. Every footfall was laced with a purpose Illias couldn’t see, and whenever anyone stepped in the way of that purpose, they were greeted with a sharp yell. Metalwork rang in the air, but louder than all, the bells of the Citadel chimed out the time so none could forget. To accompany the overwhelming sounds, there were colors that washed away every other memory and bright paints to contrast dull walls that made the eyes water. It gave the city a surreal air to it — nothing could be certain in a place teeming with contradictions. Scents pounded against his skull until he forgot what he searched for, with the pleasures of food and the rotting of garbage meeting in unholy matrimony through the air.
The Citadel was a place to be lost in and forget oneself — perhaps that was why so many were keen to live here. They didn’t have to reflect within when the world outside forged their identity for them.
The spear in Illias’s hand earned him more than one distrustful glance as he made his way along the main road, but it was nothing compared to the reaction his furs elicited. He wore them to keep warm in the late autumn season, but in the Citadel, it was hot with so many bodies pressed close together. None of the chained-folk wore furs like his. Some of the younger individuals moved forward in the crowds, hands held out to greedily brush against the fabric, and despite the pride he usually felt in his gear, discomfort accompanied their touches.49
Uncertain where else to go, he continued on his path until he came across a crowd blocking the way. The area was choked with more stalls, each stand shoved against the next and filled with a variety of things he had never seen before. He paused at a few, listening to the loud spiels of the men and women who owned them, but he could hardly see the allure. In the marketplace, it was easy to see that a chained-folk’s status was told by small, useless baubles that would only serve to weigh him down in travel.
“We got foods served to the Queens!” A woman shrieked.
“We’ve got jewelry worthy of ‘em!” A man hollered.
“We’ve got it all!” Another woman chimed in, daggers in her eyes as she glared at her competition. A young boy, about fifteen or so, held out some papers to her and shouted back. He pointed to one of the objects she was selling, and they continued to haggle loudly.
Illias passed the vendors as they yipped at anyone else who would listen, and although he paused at a few booths in curiosity, he remained unperturbed by the flashes of gold and silver that shone. What could gold and silver earn him in a place he wanted to return to ash? His own status was carved into his skin, not dependent on such farces.
“Oi, how much for those furs?” An older man with a curved belly ripe with the spoils of food pointed at Illias. It was clear the man was deeply concentrating on his effort to speak to the Erie-folk. He shoved past a line of women looking at fabrics and sauntered over to Illias. “I ain’t seen anything like those since damn near four decades ago.”
Illias’s expression immediately shifted to one of utter disbelief. Never had he been offered such a thing before — money in exchange for the cloak he had pieced together himself? The idea was more absurd than anything they had tried to sell him so far, and his brows furrowed at the sound of it. “They aren’t for sale.”
“Damn shame about that, son. Where’d you get somethin’ like that anyhow? No, wait! Let me guess.” He rubbed his hand along his chin, staring furtively at Illias. “You’re one of ‘em guard fellows, huh? You stole that off some poor wolfling, huh? I know how it is out there, son. Can’t blame you for that one. Someone’s got to protect these great lands, and—”
“You think someone in the Queens’ armies could steal from an Erie-folk?”
“Erie-folk? No need to be all correct with me, son. I used to serve the court, just like any other my age. Call ‘em what they are.”
Without another word, Illias turned and walked away, brimming with a new annoyance. The Citadel was turning out to be exactly what his people had vowed it would be. Did he truly think he could save anyone when they spoke of those born into freedom as if they were animals to be controlled? As far as he could distinguish, it left him with few options in the city. Planning had always been easier with Olena to spit ideas back and forth, but he had been thinking of this since Red’s Night streaked into existence. There was no giving up when he’d come all this way, whether the chained-folk were deserving of it or not.
He needed to talk to the Queens.
Gripping his spear tighter, he headed farther into the crowd, only to discover a crowd within a crowd — a small gang of men and women near one of the food stalls. The group was comprised all of young people, no more than a decade older than him and each carrying weapons of their own. Their quiet conversation came to a halt at the sight of him, but instead of greeting him with prejudice, one of the men gave him a short smile.
“Ay, there. You look lost. Can we help you?”
Their role was clear immediately: the guards of the Queens, the very ones who were ordered to spread unto the land, those evil shadows who the Erie-folk whispered would steal children in the night. With round cheeks and a chip in his front tooth, the man who had spoken hardly looked the part, yet Illias felt a physical repulsion to him.
“No,” he replied curtly.
Yet he needed a way into the very heart of the Citadel, to speak before the Queens with little more than peace t
o offer them. Pride for the sake of his people’s lives: he could make that trade easily enough. He made sure his spear was in a non-threatening position and thought of the memories attached to it to focus himself. How many moments were represented in the spear tips — when he and Olena had sat side by side carving them, laughter ringing and hope for the future beating so surely in their chests? Hearts beating as one, breaths taken together, another time, another place. He had spent days searching for the perfect stones to craft the points, and patience, patience above all, had been a learned trait in those days.
He tried again, “I need to meet with the Queens.”
“Eager, aren’t you?” The man laughed quietly, holding his hand over his mouth as he did so. “We all want to meet with the Queens at some point, ‘course, but only the Aegis see them on the regular. You think lowly guards get that chance? Where are you from — the wilds?”
“Wilder than here.”
The group grinned at each other, and one of the women continued for the man. “Must be new to the city then. Still got that struck look about him. You report to training yet? Maybe Lye here will pull a few strings, and get you into our little group. It’d be nice to have a fresh face.”
“Ay, don’t make him promises, Pan. I don’t got much control over that. Besides, he might be done with his service in the courts — hard to tell sometimes,” the man, presumably Lye, spoke again.
A moment of letting go of his pride for the good of his home; a moment of lying about his origins for the good of his world.
“I wasn’t sure where to go,” Illias offered tentatively. “Back home, they talked about how big this place was and how many people there were, but they never mentioned how many distractions it gave. I was lost the moment I stepped inside the damn walls.”
Pan chimed back in, “We all feel that way at first, even those from the Citadel. Lye’s from one of the nearby villages, I’m from a town a week’s journey away, Chrys’s from farther. We came to the Citadel looking for something grander, but we all have to do our time to live here. Training will be done before you know it, and don’t worry about it, we take care of the new ones well enough. Ah… What was your name again?”
“…Roam.”
It hurt to hear.
SPICA:
Olena thought about the appearance of Red’s Night, about how her heart had soared at the promise of the comet. Beyond the brilliant shade that colored the sky, the crimson had burned inside of her as well, and momentarily, she felt… Happiness was the wrong word, for how could she have felt happiness when so much uncertainty laid just before her? No, she felt hope for what was on the other side of that uncertainty. Now, she felt only a dull bitterness — the bitterness of the old, forgotten gods, unending and merciless.
She flung the knife toward the tree, looking on in harsh satisfaction as it impaled itself into the bark. It was the only source of venting that she would allow herself, and it doubled as practice for knife throwing. If she saw Hops or that damn Ranger in this moment, where her hope was being grinded so soundly, she felt she might use them as practice instead of the tree. Unjustly so, she was quite aware, but when the source of her problems lived weeks away, she had to project on someone.
“Olena,” her mother’s voice was stern as she called, but the woman was holding a plate of food for the warrior. Turning down food was an insult Olena would never pay her, and she took it with a muttered gratitude. There was comfort in the presence, and without a comment, she used her free arm to slip around Savi in a quick embrace. “I know,” Savi mumbled, and although there was no way that she could understand the turbulence circulating just beneath Olena, it helped nonetheless. “I know.”
As quickly as the embrace had begun, it ended, and Olena took a seat by the dwindling fire to eat. Savi followed suit, although she had nothing left to eat for herself. It was as if she could sense that her daughter needed someone close without the weight of words to bog them down. The fact the meal she had brought was Olena’s favorite — fowl, bread, and blackberries — certainly helped.
“I don’t get it, Ma,” Olena spoke through bites, the juice of the bird running down her fingers. “These fucking chained-folk parade around dressed as us for some reason — as if this wasn’t our life, as if it was some sort of playtime — and Illias still wants to save them? He didn’t have the stones to come tell me this himself. What does that make me if my spica’s a coward?”
The age of Savi showed as her daughter continued, and her hands brushed through her hair as she thought the matter over. It was an old thinking habit, one Olena frequently associated with the elder that the Erie-folk saw Savi as. “Illias is far from cowardly, and we both know that.” Olena grunted in reply. “If anything, he carries a courage even I don’t possess. He believes, Olena, don’t you see that? He’s got a gentle heart, and even as he lives the life of a warrior, he can’t fully dismiss the ideas that come with it. He hopes, and I love him for it.”
“Da wants me to lead the army.” Olena suddenly felt so young, and she peeked out the corner of her eye to view her mother’s reaction. It remained without a flicker of surprise. “We’ll march against the whole of the Citadel and burn it to the ground. Peace is an idea I can’t partake in, and it’s been left to me to see this done. Da united us, I’m going to lead us. The comet—”
Savi’s hand came to rest on Olena’s shoulder, giving a slight squeeze. “—The comet only prophesied what might be. It’s your job to make it so. Go to the Citadel if you feel you’ll go mad with any other option. Go to the castle and release the bonds holding the people. Do what you must.”
“But?”
“But remember that your spica saw something in those people. He believes we can exist side by side. They masquerade as us because they envy our freedom and want others to fear it. Despite that all, Illias believes enough that he is willing to leave behind half of his soul to chase his belief.” She let out a sigh before forcing a smile. “I don’t know if he’s right or if he’s wrong. I do know there’s a greater war going on: one between their ways and ours. Someone has to bend, and if our stories tell us anything, it’s that those who bend are usually trampled under the feet of those who forced them to. Be safe, whatever you chose, for the stars in your veins are the stars in mine.”
Olena wiped her mouth across the back of her hand and gathered the rest of her meal, already set on which side she would choose. Like their oldest trees, she would stand tall; she would be the one to trample, not the other way around. With a gesture that it was time they parted, she stood from her spot. This leadership was a chance to prove that she could flourish in such a role, yet to succeed, there were certain things that needed to be answered. “Maybe it’s time to find out the truth of it, eh?”
She went to fetch Hops herself and found the man sitting beside Theo, trying to make himself far smaller than he actually was to give the girl ample room. Olena wore a broad smile when she came across the scene and handed the remnants of her meal to Theo. It was then she decided that perhaps she did not mind this chained-folk so much after all. She had no active plans to kill him at the very least, which, in comparison with the constant plans to murder Ranger, was quite the improvement.
She put her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face, not willing to let the man see her warming to him. “Why your tavern?”
“Excuse me?”
Theo remained quiet, eating the rest of the fowl with disinterest to the scene.
“What would they get out of burning down your tavern?”
“I…don’t know.”
“I’m beginning to think I do. Where the fuck was it located at again?”
“About five days from here if you travel along the road, which I had gathered wasn’t something you were fond of with the way you’re camped in the woods.” His brows furrowed, as if he was beginning to piece together the same puzzle that she had gathered the ends for. “You think—”
“There have been a few more raids, haven’t there? I’ve been h
earing things along the road weren’t so good, but never had anyone thought to say we were the ones behind it,” she practically spit out. “Aye, we were responsible for a few, but only those that came onto our land carrying weapons they had a yearning to use against us. You think we’re the sort to go burning just because we’re having an off day?”
“I never—”
She unclasped her fur and pulled down the tunic beneath to reveal her collarbone. Against the olive color, pale marks moved from one collar and disappeared beneath the fabric. They were scars, rugged and rough as the home of the one who had them — a dozen more than marked her spica. Hops blinked in alarm, and she used her free hand to grip him by the scruff of his neck, pulling him to his feet. He let her hold him there, although he remained several inches taller than her at full height. Illias Rivers made a lot more sense beside those he called his own. “These are all the people I’ve led to death — a real death, some honorably and some not. Mostly, I leave them with an injury, but sometimes, they come after those I care for. I’d use their bones to build my walls too if they came for my home. I carry their deaths with me as a reminder that burning leaves nothing but ashes. There’s enough of that in the air; why would we add to it?”
“I understand that!” He straightened as she released him, but there was a clench to his jaw that hadn’t been there before. “I didn’t think you had! I understand why you distrust me. I understand why you may not want my help — but please, I don’t believe the worst about you, and if you have answers, I would appreciate some. In the end, that’s all any of us want.”
