Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists

by Edited by Adrian Collins

  “Willim!” I scream. “Aron!”

  I need the children, need to get them out, but more than that, I need their strength if we’re going to survive this.

  “Willim, help!”

  The men and women on the road respond to the cries more quickly than my children, surging up the path in a wave of shadow and lamplight. Swords flash with reflected fire. Shadows twitch over the ground as they approach.

  I have nothing in my hands, no weapon, not even the small knife I left back in the barn.

  The crowd surges up the hill toward the house, ignoring the barn, ignoring everything but me. They can see me now, that’s clear. They are fury made flesh. Their voices deafen.

  I reach the porch, stumble, drag myself up, start hauling the rocking chair toward the door—a futile, stupid effort to block it, to keep my children safe—when Willim bursts out. His eyes are wide and frightened in the moonlight, but I can feel his love, feel it pouring over me, through me, lifting me up, making me strong.

  “Mama?” he manages, staring down the hill toward the mob. He hasn’t called me mama in years. It’s been mother or mom. He doesn’t like to sound like the babies. “Mama, what’s going on?”

  Before I can answer, Aron tumbles out, then Caldi and Juni half a step behind him. My blood is on fire with their love, their trust. Moments earlier, fleeing up the hill, I felt like a lame rabbit harried by the hounds. Now I am a pillar of rage, a shield for the unprotected, a scythe for the savages who have come to shatter my life and the small lives behind me.

  I spread my arms. “Behind me, children. It’s alright. Just stay behind me.”

  The mob has slowed a dozen paces from the porch, faces twisted with hope, anger, terror. They’re right to be terrified. I could tear them apart from here, tear them apart without moving. That is the strength my children give me. That is what it is to be a leach.

  I study them, trying to decide how best to end this threat, how to slaughter them most quickly, when I feel a small hand, still warm with the heat of the covers, slip inside my own.

  I glance down. Aron.

  “Who are they?” he whispers.

  “They’re...”

  I hesitate. I want to tell him they’re thieves. I want to tell him that they’re monsters, destroyers of peace. I want to tell him the truth—they’ve come to rip apart our family, to tear down our home, to annihilate the love that binds us together. They’re nothing to us, I want to say. Nothing to fear. Nothing at all.

  For some reason, I can’t say the words.

  “Give us back our children!” a woman shrieks. “We’ll leave you alone, just give us back the children!”

  “Juni!” A man’s voice, choked. “Sweet Intarra’s light, it’s Juni!”

  I raise a hand to destroy them. It trembles in the moonlight. I could light them all ablaze, but what kind of mother sets fire to thieves in front of her own children? I could crack their ribs inside their chests, but what mother lets a baby see that? I can feel the love of my children, more vital than my own blood, coursing inside me. I can feel it, but I can’t use it. I won’t.

  Emboldened, a few of the parents edge closer.

  “She can’t reach her well,” someone shouts.

  “She’s got no power!”

  They’re wrong. Entirely wrong...and yet not wrong at all.

  I turn away from them, away from those awful faces. I kneel down to gather my children in my arms. They’re trembling. Caldi sobs. Tears burn down my own face.

  “What’s happening, Mama?” Aron whispers. “Who are they?”

  “Good people,” I reply. The words taste like rust. “They’re going to take care of you now.”

  Caldi screams and Juni joins her. “I don’t want them to take care of me!” Over and over and over.

  “It’s alright,” I tell them, hugging them close even as the hands close over me, on my shoulders and arms, pulling me away, tightening around my neck, dragging me off. “It’s alright.” I try to turn to face my assailants. “Be gentle...”

  There’s so much I want to tell them, how Aron wakes in the night sometimes crying, how he’ll go back to bed if you fix him a cup of warm milk. I want to tell them that Caldi gets sick if she eats too many bruiseberries. That I promised Juni a tiny harp on the solstice. I want to tell them that Willim’s favorite stories are the ones with Kettral, that Caldi doesn’t like blue, that Juni wears her socks pulled all the way up. There’s so much, so much, but I can’t. The hands are too tight around my throat. I could burn them to ash, but not in front of the children.

  I close my eyes and feel it flow through me, their love, all that love, better than breath, than light, than life, bright as the autumn sky.

  A Foundation of Bones

  - Tower and Knife -

  Mazarkis Williams

  Adam gripped the rock above him, feet scrambling for purchase below. He had been to Mogyrk’s View five times and still had trouble with this last yard, especially now. Arms shaking with effort, he got his elbows over the lip. Silently he thanked Mogyrk that at this height nobody could see his awkward wriggling. Though he was just a young priest only four years out of training, the congregants already saw him a certain way: confident, powerful, strong. And he had been strong, he told himself: he had not chosen the easy path but the right one. He pulled one knee over, held fast, and heaved himself up onto the flat surface. For a moment he sprawled, breath knocked out, heart pumping, eyes squeezed shut against the world. Then he drew himself up, took a deep breath, and looked. Nothing had changed. The world spread out all around him as it always had. To the northeast, a chain of blue mountains led to Yrkmir, the heart of his church. To the southwest and far below him lay his home, Mondrath, huddled against the mountain, its brightly painted houses lining each side of the river that fed the valley beyond. Then there was everything in between and all that was afar. Cerana, the ancient enemy, to the south; the Felting people to the west; and past them, the great markets of Kesh.

  Closer in, halfway down the slope, Adam could see blue fabric hitched up against a pine. The wind lifted it from time to time with a swaying of needled branches. Every few seconds he saw a hint of sandy hair or a light-coloured thing that could be a twisted limb. Then the wind would die down, and only the blue—Mogyrk-blue, sign-blue, pattern-blue—remained.

  Adam had come to the god’s view before to look out along the path of his life, and he imagined Mogyrk had done the same when He lived. Adam had always believed that in the coming years he would be called closer and closer to the seat of the Sacred Church until finally he would stand in its sanctum, wearing one of its highest robes of office. But now he was no longer certain. Had Mogyrk known His future, known He would die for the power he had granted his priests? Had He ever had doubts?

  He wiped a tear from his eye. He had finally made his decision but there had been a price to pay. He told himself it did not matter. The boy was safe.

  * * *

  Adam remembered that day in the sanctuary when he saw who Didryk truly was. The boy had been there with perhaps five other students—he did not remember the names of the others. They were not important. Stuart March had been there, too, as the official teacher of the youngest pledges. It had been raining outside, and the light was grey and dull.

  Didryk sat down apart from the other children. “I’m going to draw a picture,” he said. Stuart frowned but said nothing; the boy was the Duke’s nephew, would perhaps become their ruler someday. He was treated differently to the others, even then, before they knew what he could do. He sat down and began drawing on the floor with a piece of chalk, creating half-moons, circles and squares, connecting them with lines so precise Adam could not help but imagine a divine hand behind it. When the boy had nearly completed a rough circle, Adam grew concerned. Discovery of a talented child led to a sequence of events that Adam would rather avoid. He settled into a crouch beside Didryk, blocking Stuart’s view. As Austere in Charge and friend to the duke�
��s family, Adam had more authority over the boy than anyone. “Didryk,” he said.

  Didryk looked up with his deep blue eyes and smiled. Adam smiled too. There was something about the boy that was both joyful and infectious. Not only was he spoiled by his nobility, but also by the way people reacted to him.

  Adam made his voice serious. “What kind of picture are you making?”

  “Kavic hurt his thumb.”

  “That does not answer my question, Didryk.”

  Didryk sighed the way a parent sighs when asked to explain something simple. “If Kavic goes in my circle, then his thumb will be healed. See? I found this sign of Mogyrk in a book...and this sign...” He pointed as he spoke. “Those are secret Names for healing.”

  “But you know, child,” Adam said, “pattern-making is difficult, let alone healing. You risk doing more harm than good until you have had a great deal of practice. You are only seven and—”

  Didryk shook his head. “My circle is perfect,” he said.

  With shock, Adam had to admit that it did look nearly perfect. That was why he took the corner of his robe and wiped away the chalk marks before they were lit by Mogyrk’s power. Even acolytes, grown men with years of training, could not always light their circles. “Rejoin the others,” he instructed, keeping his voice even though his heart was beating fast, “and I will speak with you later.”

  Didryk clamped his mouth shut against some protest and nodded. Tears threatened in his eyes. But it was not the time for Adam to baby him. Already too much rested on the boy.

  * * *

  That evening Adam climbed up the mountain, passing bluebell and poppy and pine until at last he sat upon the high view. He had learned, as all austeres had learned, that one day a child would be born to Yrkmir who would be gifted with Mogyrk’s Signs. This child would become a healer, and this healer would free the god from death and bring about the new world. Therefore when gifted children were encountered, they were sent directly to the seat of the Sacred Church. But there was one problem. This child had not been born to Yrkmir. He had been born to Fryth, a colony—a reluctant colony—of that great empire.

  Still catching his breath Adam looked down upon Mondrath. From here he could see the manse, its flags gleaming in the moonlight. The Duke of Fryth, the Iron Duke as he was called, was one of the only leaders to have ever mounted a successful resistance against the Church of Mogyrk, and he remained an ardent pagan. Peace had been achieved only by sacrificing his nephew to a life in the priesthood. That nephew was Didryk.

  Adam’s loyalties were split. He was Fryth born and bred. Didryk might become his duke one day, and if he were as powerful as he seemed, he could also become First Austere. Adam caught his breath just thinking of all the power that would belong to Fryth if that occurred. But it could not, if the boy were sent to Yrkmir.

  And as an austere, Adam could not turn from Yrkmir.

  He fell to his knees and begged for Mogyrk’s help. If he told the church about the boy, they would take him, and that had an unexpected sting to it. He had grown accustomed to Didryk, to his sunny nature, to his happy self-assurance. He could only imagine what would happen to him inside the halls of power in Yrkmir.

  Mogyrk gave no sign. Adam needed time to think. To do that he needed to keep Didryk’s abilities secret. He climbed down in the growing dark, having decided to betray everyone. Everyone, except the boy.

  * * *

  Stuart confronted him less than two weeks later. He was a square-shouldered young man whose grey eyes reminded Adam of the duke’s. “Why do you have the young king in private lessons?” he asked. Stuart liked to call Didryk ‘the young king,’ but whether it was an insult or prescience, Adam could not discern.

  “He has sympathy for the other boys. He picks up things so much more quickly than they do.” When telling a lie, always veer close to the truth.

  But Stuart was smarter than Adam thought. His eyes narrowed. “How quickly?”

  “Quick enough. He’ll make a good acolyte.” Adam made the comparison in his voice. Better than you. He brushed imaginary dust from his robe, yellow to Stuart’s blue. “Is there anything else?”

  “It’s just—austere—I don’t mean to—” Stuart gave an exasperated sigh. He was Yrkmir born: it must irk him, Adam realized, to stand below a Fryth in rank.

  “Then don’t.” Adam stepped closer. “I know we are often informal out here in the colony, so far from the centre of the church. But the fact remains I am an austere and you are an acolyte.”

  Stuart nodded acceptance at the same time he continued to object. “It is only that I was put in charge of the boys’ lessons, but now one of them has been taken out of the class.”

  “I think you will find your job easier because of it.”

  Stuart was not pleased, but at last he turned and left. Adam sighed and fingered the book he was going to show Didryk, one that he himself had not mastered until he was sixteen. He turned and opened the door to the small room where the boy waited. It was not wise to leave him alone too long lest he begin to draw patterns of his own creation, and who knew what might come of that.

  Didryk smiled, his whole face lighting up with pleasure to see him. Adam felt a corresponding happiness within himself, but he kept his face stern. “This is an important day, child. We are going to tackle a new book.”

  The boy’s gaze fell to the title written on the spine. “I saw that,” he said. “Acolyte Stuart showed it to me.”

  At once Adam went cold. “Why? When did he show it to you?”

  “Today. He opened it up and asked me if I could tell him what the patterns meant.” Didryk wiggled in his seat, dark hair flashing in the light from the window.

  Stuart must have seen, that day in the sanctuary. Seen, and said nothing, and watched. “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing. You don’t want him to know, do you?” At this Didryk stood and paced to the bookshelf. “Am I also not to tell my uncle the duke? That I can make patterns?”

  “That is your decision, child. I know it is not well to keep secrets.” Adam rubbed his chin. “It is only that—”

  “I know,” Didryk interrupted. “If he knew I was good at patterns, he would make me hurt people with them when he goes to war. I don’t want to hurt people.”

  “No, not that. Your uncle does not need to go to war ever again. He is under the protection of Yrkmir and the Sacred Church.”

  Didryk puckered his lips at that, but did not argue. Adam cleared his throat. “The Light of Mogyrk...’ he pointed at the book. “We austeres have the power to bring it to the whole world. Politics and wars should not concern us except as a tool to bring people into that Light.”

  “That’s not true,” said Didryk, opening the book to a random page.

  “What part is not true?”

  “The Light. Mogyrk is always in darkness because He is dying.”

  Adam had to tread carefully here. If Didryk were but a few years older there would be serious consequences for such heresy. But he knew that the concept of a god giving his life and yet remaining present was a difficult concept for children. “Mogyrk is dead,” he reminded the boy.

  “No,” Didryk insisted, “he’s not.”

  * * *

  Perhaps Didryk is the devil.

  Adam sat at church council, austeres to either side, barely listening as they discussed donations, building projects and library duties. The child showed extraordinary talent, especially for healing, and yet he spoke heresy. More clues: he charmed everyone. He warmed every room he entered. Even Adam, who had never cared for children, looked forward to Didryk’s private lessons. And yet the boy spoke falsehood with such certainty. Mogyrk is in darkness, not light. He could be the deceiver himself. That was the other, little-known reason why the church insisted all gifted children be sent to Yrkmir: in case one of them was fated to destroy it. His stomach twisted.

  No, Didryk was not the deceiver. He was just a child. Adam had to r
emember that. Destroyers were killed. Children were taught, and loved.

  “...duke’s nephew...” Stuart’s voice penetrated his thoughts, and he sat up in his chair. “Pardon?”

  Austere Brandt, older but of lesser rank, explained. “March here tells us that you have taken young Didryk into private lessons.”

  “I have.” Adam nodded, and nodded again, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. “Yes, I have. You see...”—he glanced at Stuart—“You see, I did not want to insult the acolyte, but the duke is quite particular. Very particular, in fact. And so I took it upon myself to avoid...an incident.” Nobody spoke of the duke’s pagan leanings or his hatred of Yrkmir, but today, he could hint at it. Stuart was Yrkman. Let them make what they would of that.

  “An incident,” Stuart echoed.

  “Yes. Yes, exactly.”

  Brandt scratched his white-whiskered cheek. “It’s peculiar, I’ll say that. Stuart was given stewardship of the children.”

  “Speak to the duke,” Adam replied. “I am sure he will support my decision.” He knew this was true, but he also knew that Brandt would never approach the duke: he was not of the correct class.

  Brandt waved the issue away as if it were an annoying fly. “No need for that. You are the austere in charge here.”

  “But I do think...” Stuart began, and then slumped back in his seat, blue robes uncharacteristically rumpled. His surrender was feigned; Adam would have to keep an eye on him.

  “Well,” said Adam, standing, “if there is nothing else.” He left the room and made his way to the library. There he stood and stared at the books, all the books which Didryk would devour and make his own. But to do that he must survive. Didryk must not speak his heresy to the other austeres. At the very least he would be severely punished. At worst he would come under suspicion and be sent to the Numbers, priests so elevated they were titled by their proximity to the Seat: Second Austere. Third Austere. Fourth. Adam shuddered to think what they would do to the boy. And to Adam himself—for hiding him.