So when the news came, she was no less devastated for expecting it. She wasn’t sure she could survive it herself. Until she saw her granddaughter a tenday later. Gangly, sassy, smart as a whipcrack, but not a woman yet, and damaged, lost, and needing her grandmother as much as a person could need anything at all. The grandmother knew then she had to be strong, that her loss, awful as it was, wasn’t the only one, and maybe not the worst. That girl has been even more broken. So the grandmother took her in. They were each of them the only thing the other had left in the world. The grandmother took her in, taught her to avoid men who cared more for lines in the dirt than how to till it or to make something of it, and did her best to do right by her.
So, years later, the grandmother looked at the woman that gangly girl grew up to be—strong, feisty, brighter even then before, a journeywoman arkwright, and she wept, smiling, her heart full of a fierce pride and love that might not had happened, had it not been for the loss they shared . . .
A young woman watched, hidden behind a tree. She fidgeted, shivered against a biting wind, pulling her cheap cloak tight, and continued watching, cursing herself a fool, furious with herself for every horrible choice she’d made, for her weakness, her blindness, her stupidity. She smelled the wood burning in a nearby fireplace, and told herself she just needed to leave, to head home and pick up her meager belongings she had packed already and simply leave the bastard, knowing even as she thought it that she was lying to herself again. And then she saw them.
Him.
Tall and angled and lanky, arm draped around the girl as the pair walked down the dirt path. Despite the cold and the random snowflakes carried in every direction at once, they laughed.
The young woman hugged herself as the pair embraced, and the lanky man kissed the other woman, once, long and slow, and then again, a fast peck, and again, the way new lovers do, and then again, as they started to part and pulled back together. The young woman watched, so cold she could barely feel her limbs, as the woman finally gave one more kiss and pushed the lanky man away, laughing, eliciting a laugh from him as well as she entered her home. The man started walking down the lane, wrapping his hands in the folds of his tunic, whistling, and the young woman stayed hidden for a moment.
She had her proof. The lanky man was a faithless bastard. She knew she should rush home and make her escape from him, but instead, she found herself turning around the tree as he came, keeping it between her and the bastard who had made such an awful fool of her. And then she knelt and picked up an ice cold stone with her hands, shivering.
But shivering not from the elements, but the hot rage coursing through her, the humiliation, the emptiness, the failure and foolishness not to have seen what he was earlier. And she moved through the trees, holding the large stone with both hands, catching up to the lanky man with the disarming smile who always seemed to know just what to say to her, to flatter her, to appease her. The man whom she felt most comfortable with of everyone in the world, who had convinced her to reveal her truest self without even seeming to try. And she ran up behind this man, breath ghosting is front of her mouth, and cried out once, not a name, but simply a shrill anguished scream, and as he started to turn around, she struck him in the back of the head with the stone as hard as she could.
The lanky man fell to the earth and she nearly fell as well, tripping over one of his long legs, losing her balance, ending up in front of him. The man looked up, holding the back of his head with a bloody hand, trying to rise, limbs not cooperating, eyes unfocused, and that made the young woman even more furious, as if he was willingly looking past her, and she screamed and brought the stone down, but only struck a glancing blow to his temple. The lanky man slumped forward, raised his red hand to ward off more blows, and tried to crawl the other way, and to the young woman, this was just his rank cowardice made flesh. She thought she only meant to hurt him, to match the damage he had inflicted on her, but now, snowflakes landing on her eyelashes, a bloody stone in her still hands, she knew that was no longer enough.
She brought it down again, and again, no longer screaming, but with calm drive and insistence. As his hands dropped to the ground, and his limbs jerked, and blood spattered the snow, she lifted the stone again and told herself it was just like churning butter . . . just like churning butter . . .
And the memories came, faster and faster, distinct at first, but then jumbling together, one awful, tragic, wonderful thing after the next, poignant, beautiful, mundane, shocking, gut-wrenching, a storm of human memories, lurid, passionate, horrific, sublime, potent surge after surge, and I reeled and again fell to my knees, but no amount of clenching my eyes tight stopped the deluge, and I bit my tongue as I hit the stones at my feet, hearing the Matriarch’s voice as from a wraith, “You carry the plague . . . it is who you are . . .”
And then everything was lost, replaced again by the void.
When I woke up, my eyes were crusted over with gunk, my mouth was dry and sore, my muscles hurt everywhere, and my stomach felt like it had heaved everything out a tenday ago, empty and acidic.
Rudgi’s face appeared above me, and I realized I was back in our prison quarters again. She turned and called out, “This one’s up, too.” Then she glanced back down and wrinkled her nose. “He’ll be needing a soapy bath as well. Pissed himself good.”
I should have been mortified, but I was too disoriented and sore to care. “What . . . ?” I licked my cracked lips.
Rudgi handed me a ladle full of water out of a bucket. “Easy does it, now. Take a drink or two, would you?”
I did, spilling half of it down my shift with shaky hands, not caring about that either. “What happened? How long have I been . . . out?”
She took the ladle back. “That wasn’t quite the bath I had in mind. And as to the rest, the Deserter bastards brought you and the others back two days ago.”
“Two . . . days?” I shook my foggy head and tried to sit up, but my arms barely supported me. “The rest of us? So we all made it?”
Rudgi smiled. “You all made it. Caked in vomit, crying out in your sleep, pissing yourselves like buckets with no bottoms, but yeah, you’re all here. I have to say, makes me real happy Cap didn’t invite sergeants too.”
I immediately thought about Braylar, and how he had suffered bombardments like this so many times before. “And everyone . . . we’re all awake now?”
She nodded. “Aye. You were the last. You doing OK? I mean, aside from everything I just mentioned?”
The water I managed to get down nearly threatened to come right back up as I burped, but I nodded. “Yes. Couldn’t be better. Why ever would you ask?”
Rudgi looked at me closely and then looked towards the wall, and then the ceiling.
I glanced in that direction and started to turn away when I saw something out of the corner of my eye, like a spider crawling or a shadow slipping past. I looked longer, and nearly scooted back away from the wall—images flew across the surface, ghostlike, silhouettes, emerging from nowhere, sliding over the rough stones, and disappearing.
“What . . . ?”
“And . . . there it is,” Rudgi said. “Vendurro said you might be seeing things too. Well, seeing what’s there, maybe, that no one else can.”
I looked at her quickly in time to see her shiver, then back to the ceiling. More faint outlines coalesced on the surface, held sway, and then disappeared. And as I glanced around the chamber, I saw the same thing on all the walls and the rest of the ceiling, now that my eye was picking them up. “Memories,” I said quietly, somewhat horrified. “The Matriarch . . . being with her allowed us to see them. Memories of slaves who have been in this room, and that one, and . . .” I stopped myself. “We all see them?”
“Every one of you poor bastards that accompanied those Deserter fucks. Ayyup.”
Horror and fear gave way to fascination, until I couldn’t do anything but stare, to try to make out what the images or sensations were, oddly flattened and stripped of most of their su
bstance as they raced across the walls and ceiling. It was like seeing ghosts flitting around the room.
“Come on, Arki,” Rudgi said, chuckling as she helped me to my feet. The muscles in my calves seized up, and I had to stretch and reposition several times to finally work the cramps out before I could walk.
Soffjian entered the room, looked me up and down, and gave a thin humorless grin. “So good of you to join us again, Arki. We were beginning to wonder.”
“Your kindness is, as ever, uh . . .” My mind was seizing up as well.
That seemed to bring about some actual mirth. “Bountiful? A deep comfort? Effervescent?”
“Right. Something like that.” I was staring at the wall again, as what looked like the pale outline of a rooter rumbled past.
Soffjian laughed. “Don’t worry, Arki. It goes away eventually.”
As odd as it was to see the memories of slaves smeared on the wall, appearing and disappearing like the surface of a lake touched by the wind, I was almost saddened to hear I wouldn’t be able to see them soon. “Was this . . . is this what they did to you? Is that why you were unresponsive when they returned you?”
“Yes and no. I’ve spoken with the others—well, not Mulldoos, as he was disinclined to discuss—so I’ve heard enough to recognize that they tried something similar with me at first. But I have defenses and training for resisting that sort of thing, and managed to rebuff them. A bit. So they had to . . . escalate their efforts.”
Rudgi started to leave when I said, “Could I have some more water, please?”
She handed me the ladle, standing clear to avoid the smell and any spillage. When I finished taking a few more gulps without vomiting, I handed it back.
“Get yourself some soap, Arki. A lot of it,” Rudgi said, softening it a little with a crooked smile before leaving.
I tried to imagine what Soffjian had endured and was glad I couldn’t. “What were they trying to accomplish? Why did they subject us to that?”
Soffjian said, “I can’t answer for certain, not being a Deserter, or whatever they call themselves. But I suspect they were trying to overwhelm you, overcome you so as to better sift through your memories once you were helpless. I imagine they were trying to ascertain whether we were telling the truth or if we actually were a feeler of some invading army.” She shrugged. “Though they could have been doing anything, truly. It wasn’t all that different from the manumission ceremony, though far more hostile and invasive. When a man is at his most helpless, you can work unimpeded.”
I nearly threw up again. “Do you think they . . . bonded with us?”
“No,” she said. “I do not.”
“Why?”
Soffjian gave me a long look. “I imagined you would have pieced that together by now, being at least passably clever. While these giants are far more powerful than us in every way, and fancy themselves quite a bit above our kind, they can’t abide us in great numbers, and though I doubt they would ever admit as much, they fear us.”
I considered that, and it made sense with what the Matriarch had said before invading our minds. “Or detest us.”
“Or detest us,” she agreed. “They clearly have some use for our kind still— while they erected the Veil behind them, they allow small communities of humans to serve them here. But very small. A controlled population. Tightly controlled, from the looks of it. Whatever calamity befell them on the other side before they left the teeming realms of men behind, they have no desire to see it repeated. Which is why our unexpected arrival here is a stone thrown at a hornets’ nest.”
My stomach grumbled and churned, though I wasn’t sure whether with rebellion or hunger. “What do you think they mean to do with us now?”
Soffjian pursed her lips and took a deep breath. “I haven’t the slightest idea. But I suspect it will not be anything we like.”
She turned and left and I followed, though slowly, stepping carefully to be sure my legs weren’t going to cramp up and betray me again. When they finally seemed to behave themselves, I walked out of my room.
There was a bathtub that didn’t have the cleanest water in it, but it was at least tepid, and much better than a urine-soaked shift. I cleaned myself off, dressed in what passed for a fresh tunic, and timidly ate some bread, hoping it would stay down. When it didn’t catapult back up, I looked for Braylar and his retinue.
A few of the Syldoon soldiers who saw me gave me a small nod, but most ignored me, which was all for the best really.
I found the captain, his officers, and his sister in the room with windows facing the city of Roxtiniak, arguing over something. It wasn’t raining, but the clouds were spread thick and wide, covering the entire sky like a shroud.
Azmorgon saw me first and said, “Look who’s back. Figured you were a goner, little flower, all your petals crushed into powder. Or whatever petals get crushed into.”
Mulldoos looked at the huge man and shook his head. “You’re a plaguing idiot.”
“What? Ain’t that what herbalists do? Crush things into dust or powders or whatnot with a thistle?”
“Pestle, you plaguing—never mind. Not even worth it.” Mulldoos looked me up and down, and while he didn’t welcome me, he didn’t mock me either, so that was something.
Vendurro said, “Good to see you, bookmaster.” He leaned in close as I passed, conspiratorial. “I would have gone with ‘pages of a scroll crushed into powder’ myself, if I was a plaguing mean-ass bastard. Which I ain’t. Most of the time, leastwise.” Then he winked and clapped me on the back. “Still seeing whispers on the wall?”
I nodded slowly, realizing I was looking past his shoulder as one crept across the stones and disappeared again. Whispers on the wall was apt.
Vendurro said, “It’ll pass. Did for the rest of us.”
Braylar seemed to be assessing me as well before continuing the conversation they were embroiled in. “We don’t yet know their intentions.”
Mulldoos replied, “We know they cracked our heads open like rotten nuts, played around inside worse than any Memoridon witch would do, and nearly husked the lot of us. I’d say their intentions aren’t so plaguing mysterious as all that.”
“None of that is false,” the captain replied. “And yet, they did not in fact husk us. And they could have killed us instead of capturing us in the first place, or at any point after, including in the bowels of this citadel. They chose not to. Let us not forget that.”
One side of Mulldoos’s lips curled in a snarl. “Fine. They didn’t off us or husk us. Yet. But even if they don’t, you seen the dumb bastards they got under their big boot heels. Men are little better than dogs or cattle here. The worst of the lot are riding around in baskets, thinking they’re some kind of elite chosen ones when the truth of it is they just ain’t got legs to run away.”
Braylar rubbed his fingers under his jaw, across the heavy stubble. “I am not suggesting we offer to kneel and paint their impressively large toenails. I will be no one’s thrall.”
“Good. Then it’s settled,” Mulldoos said.
“Nothing is settled. What I am saying, not to be mistaken for suggesting, is that we should not act rashly and ensure our deaths. We will escape this place. But we must be tactical and measured about it.”
Azmorgon said, “Measured this, measured that. Hate to say it, on account of him being a needle stuck in my cock most of the time, but the pale bastard there has the right of it. We got to bust out. Got to.”
Soffjian sneered as well as anyone I have ever seen. “Marvelous plan. I would love to hear the specifics.”
“Specifics?” Azmorgon asked. “What are you plaguing going on about? We lure some in here, kill them, make a break for it.”
“Oh, yes, an incredibly sound plan, as expected. I imagine, then, that you have already begun construction on the tunnel that will get us out of this room, since the door is impassable, and from there, under the walls of the city, since it is surrounded by a barrier no less deadly than the Godveil itself
. Because if not, I suggest you start. That will take a good bit of time.”
Azmorgon stood to his full, impressive height, as if that might cow the Memoridon. “Listen, you lippy bitch, nobody asked for your plaguing input.”
“I did,” Braylar said. Then he surveyed the group. “I asked all of you here, as we need to discuss a strategy. But as my sister so keenly points out, that requires forethought, planning, and measured consideration.”
Vendurro said, “Maybe digging ain’t so practical, but why not climb out of here?”
“Atta boy, Squirrel!” Azmorgon said, never one to pass up an opportunity to add an insult to an otherwise collegial conversation.
Mulldoos said, “You seen those inverted walls, Ven. A spider could do it, maybe even a squirrel. But we ain’t climbing down.”
Vendurro replied, “Not with our fingers and toes, we couldn’t. Never said we were plaguing monkeys. But maybe we could tear up some cots, work up some ropes or harness of some kind, scale our way out of here.”
Soffjian said, “Even if we did manage to scale down with jury-rigged ropes, there are still things to contend with. On the interior of this round keep, you have only the lake. No escape there, unless you expect to swim down the drain in the middle. But we know all too well where that leads. And on the other side—”
Mulldoos finished. “Hundreds of eyes. Or horns, in the case of the Deserter cunts. We’d be seen by somebody for sure.”
Vendurro wasn’t quite ready to admit defeat. “Not at night.”
I said, “But they can see at night. Or sense. They aren’t reliant on light like we are—they see another way. Just like they weren’t affected by the smoke when they attacked us. They aren’t limited like we are.”
Mulldoos nodded. “What the scribbler said, it’s spot on. They’d see us at night as clear as if the sun were riding high.”
Chains of the Heretic Page 26
