They walked down a narrow stone path with no guardrails. Pits of fire sat on both sides. The flames’ tips licked the ankles of anyone who stepped too close to the edge, so Jugtah, like he had noticed from Apoleia ahead of him, made it a point to walk the straight and narrow. It was a wonder how the two Stillian royal women could handle such a place. He turned back to look at Ropinia. She was definitely experiencing fatigue. Sweat rolled off her chin, and the frost that normally sparkled in her violet hair had liquefied.
As they followed the path, Jugtah startled a few times as a flame would suddenly hiss and reach higher than others. Stone pathways intersected every fifty paces or so, giving one the option to continue forward or turn right or left. It was set like a perfect grid of pathways, and at the center of each square was a ring of fire that surrounded a sizable platform jutting from the flames. For every platform, there was a person cowering at its center.
Jugtah now understood. “Is this the Stillian idea of prison cells?”
Apoleia spun to face Jugtah, but continued to walk backward with little regard for where she was headed. She spread her arms to the side, as if she was presenting her greatest achievement. “This is Avyssos, home of the wicked—those select few who I feel deserve to suffer.”
Squinting through the top of the inferno, Jugtah watched as a scrawny man lay listlessly on a platform, heaving desperately. “And since they’re Stillian, I suppose you didn’t feel the need for bars to keep them in. Fire—especially of this magnitude—does the trick.”
“That it does,” Apoleia whispered with a grin. “The only reason why my sister and I can walk through here is because we’re royals. Some say that makes us just a tad stronger than civilians.” She shrugged. “Just a rumor I heard one day.”
Jugtah ignored her playful manner. “How are the fires kept going?”
“Maybe you’ll find out one day,” Apoleia said, glancing up toward the ceiling. She paused, then looked down at Jugtah again. “Or maybe it’s a miracle.” She laughed maniacally at her own joke.
Following Apoleia’s initial gaze upward, Jugtah was surprised to find a ceiling of ice, likely high enough to not be affected by the blazing pits.
Apoleia faced forward and continued speaking. “Since its creation, this has served as a prison for the vilest of male criminals—those who assault women, physically or sexually. In any normal setting, such crimes are already considered some of the most heinous, so you can only imagine how we feel about them in a culture like ours, where women have always run the show.”
With narrowed eyes, Jugtah said, “But I’ve seen three women already.”
“Rules have changed since I’ve come to be queen,” Apoleia said. “If there was anything my mother taught me, it was that a woman can be just as flawed. My grandmother taught me this, too, but not through her own actions—rather the stories she told me of some of our past queens, like Queen Francine.”
“Then why did you banish Bryson and Olivia when they pushed against you at Phesaw?” Jugtah asked. “That is what you did, didn’t you?”
“It is,” she replied. “That had been an impulsive decision catalyzed by a combination of resurfaced wounds from the sight of that boy and the betrayal by the hands of my own daughter.”
“So now you forgive them?”
“I do not,” she snapped, venom returning to her voice. “But I’ve offered to let them in my city once again.” After a short pause, she added, “And we’ll see what happens depending on the outcome of what the lot of you has offered. I’d be a fool to dismiss such a generous proposal. I love my father dearly; he was the only parent to reciprocate that love.”
Apoleia fell quiet, then said, “Listen to me, rambling on about personal dealings with a strange man. It’s been quite some time since I’ve felt vulnerable enough to do so. I suppose the promise of my father’s movement has relinquished some of my emotional defenses. What would you say, Ropinia?”
“I agree,” her sister said.
Apoleia stopped on a dime, whirling around and snatching Jugtah’s throat. Her fingers pressed into his skin, ice slithering around his neck. “But if you fail me ... if you cross me ...” She leaned in and whispered into his ear, “I will freeze you from the inside out, beginning with the least vital of your organs, until I slowly stop your heart from beating.” As the frost from her voice bit at his ear, she said, “Do you understand me?”
He nodded as best he could, the ice coating his neck hindering his motions. “Yes.”
She released him and smiled softly. “Very good.” She turned forward again. “We’re almost there.”
Their journey lasted for another ten minutes before they crossed onto an open floor space at what was probably the center of the corridor. A man and woman sat on chairs at the center, their backs hunched and shoulders slouched, rope wrapped around their bodies, tethering their arms to their sides.
Apoleia approached the man first, dragging her hand up his chest to his shoulder. As she stepped behind him, she yanked his head back and clawed his neck with fingers that resembled icicles.
Jugtah gasped, his face scrunching together in disgust. Blood sprayed from four different slash marks in the man’s neck, coating the floor a few paces away. Apoleia shoved her prisoner’s head forward, causing it to hang listlessly atop his chest, blood seeping into his robes.
“Bring him back to life,” she said, her frozen talons disappearing into her fingers. She casually wiped her hand against the man’s shoulder.
Jugtah opened and closed his mouth probably five times before saying, “I can’t do anything with that.” He thrust his hand out, horror etched into his face.
“I thought you could bring people back to life. First, you claim that the corpse must be fresh—seconds fresh. So, here I am, offering you something fresh.” She smiled. “Now what is the problem?”
“I can’t put ...” He paused and clasped his hand over his mouth, turning to the side and nearly vomiting.
“Oh, get a hold of yourself,” Apoleia said.
He took a deep breath and straightened up again. “You’ve drained him of blood. Weaving isn’t magic; I’m sure you understand this. There are rules to what each energy can do; we cannot perform feats that fall outside of the realm of possibility. In what way would you recommend I put all of that blood back into his body? Intel Energy can only manipulate the nervous system.”
Apoleia pouted and gazed down at the fresh corpse. “I suppose that makes sense.” She shifted her focus toward the woman seated next to the man. “So, we must stop her heart,” she mused, stepping behind her chair. “That is doable.”
Apoleia reached over the woman’s shoulder, placing her hand over her heart. Frost spread outward from Apoleia’s hand. Jugtah could only imagine the pain the woman was feeling, yet she showed no signs of it. Her eyes grew lazy, and her shoulders began to slump as Apoleia began to slow her heart to a standstill. Eventually the woman slouched over, the rope the only thing keeping her on the chair.
Jugtah rushed forward, nearly slipping in the man’s blood. “Hurry, unbound her,” he said, fumbling with the rope himself. A blade slipped into Apoleia’s grasp from within her sleeve. She slashed downward swiftly, freeing the cadaver. Jugtah caught her, then gently lay her across the floor.
Apoleia clapped giddily as Jugtah lifted up the woman’s shirt to expose bare skin. “Ropinia, are you watching this?” she asked with excitement. “He’s going to do magic!”
Jugtah straddled the dead prisoner, then thrust his hands onto her chest, weaving electricity into her body. She jittered, but that was it. He tried thrice more, each time with the same result.
“Come on, weaver of miracles!” Apoleia whined.
Slowly, Jugtah exhaled. He needed to calm himself. His weaving patterns were erratic, and he was using too much clout. Once more, he placed his hands atop her chest and, this time, eased up on the intensity, focusing more on the patterns.
Her body convulsed like she was experiencing a seizure. Jugta
h ripped his hands away, fearful that he’d fry her insides—there would be no coming back from such a fate. The lady gasped for air and clutched at her chest. As she sat up and looked down at herself, Jugtah relaxed, sitting atop his calves. He rolled off of her after another few seconds.
“Where’s the ice?” the lady asked, speaking of the attack Apoleia had unleashed on her earlier.
Apoleia’s smile was gone, her face absent of any expression. She looked exactly like her daughter, Olivia.
“There’s your proof, sister,” Ropinia said, interrupting the silence.
Apoleia’s gaze shifted to her sister, lingering there for a moment before glancing back at the prisoner. She leaned over and pressed her hand against the woman’s chest once more. Frost slithered from her clutches, and the woman’s eyes spread wide.
“Stop it!” Jugtah shouted. “Please, stop! I won’t be able to revive her every time. It isn’t a flawless practice.”
The ice stopped, and Apoleia gazed at Jugtah. “So? Do you pity the criminal?”
Jugtah opened his mouth, but hesitated. He’d forgotten where they were.
“Do you know what crime this woman has committed? Her execution was overdue anyway.”
Jugtah slowly shook his head.
“One night, her father asked her to not stay out too late,” Apoleia said. “After all, they lived in a slummy area. You know ... ice that looked like muddy slush crammed into curbsides and wooden buildings that moonlight couldn’t bounce off of. Well, she defied her father—like most Stillian women who have already experienced their first cleanse do. When she returned home—safely, to her father’s delight—her father gave her a stern talking to ... not a scolding, not abuse ... just a few words of wisdom.”
“And overstepped his boundaries,” the prisoner said.
“Tell the miracle weaver what it was that you did,” Apoleia said.
Gazing over at Jugtah, the woman replied, “I stabbed him in the stomach thirteen times.”
“Now tell me again,” Apoleia said, glaring at Jugtah. “Do you pity the criminal?”
After a slow shake of his head, Apoleia smirked and continued to freeze the woman’s chest. “So we’ll continue to kill her and bring her back to life until you fail.” Apoleia licked her lips. “A new kind of torture.”
* * *
Shelly didn’t sleep in her room anymore. She slept in a nursery that she and her sister had once slept in as babies. Now she was the mother, and her baby lay in a crib nearby, screaming and crying.
Curled into a ball in a queen-sized bed, Shelly squeezed her forearms against her ears. She couldn’t take it. From the noise-induced headaches and upset stomachs caused by the scent of the infant soiling himself constantly, she had become overwhelmed. She thought she could do this, she really did. But ever since Bryson’s departure, fear had overtaken her.
The nursery’s door opened. Shelly didn’t have to look to know that it was her mom. Every time the baby began to cry, Delilah came to the rescue. That was why Shelly didn’t stay in her room anymore; it was too far from the only person willing to help.
The wailing stopped, replaced by the soothing hushes of the queen. As Shelly wiped tears from her cheeks, she heard her mother approaching from behind. The baby was placed in front of Shelly so that he nestled perfectly within her curled stomach.
“Leon Kawi only wants his mother,” Delilah said. “You’ll get the hang of it, Shelly.”
31
A Refugee in Disguise
Rhyparia’s stomach and energy canals were withering away. She and her group had lost track of time long ago. Nobody knew how many months they’d spent traversing Realmular Tunnel, but they had an idea as to how many more days they could last.
That’s right ... days.
She needed to see sunlight—any sign of reaching the other end, anything that’d tell her she wasn’t going to die in this chasm. Even with eight hours of rest every day, her energy still depleted quicker as each day progressed. People weren’t meant to weave for such extended periods of time. A few of her travel partners had questioned what she was accomplishing.
Natural gravity began to push against hers, making the climb up the tunnel’s wall more difficult. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been much to complain about, but with atrophied muscles, the pain was agonizing. Atarax and Kakos had spent the past week on all fours, using their front claws to help push them up the wall. It reminded Rhyparia of what Biaza and Moros had told her a while back, that two of the craftmasters were once Unboundants long ago. Just a month ago, Atarax had confirmed such a claim by outing himself and Kakos.
Rhyparia glanced at Saikatto, the original Adren Jestivan. He had lost most of his muscle mass, but he was still able to carry a sleeping Prakriti over his shoulder. Prakriti looked worse than anyone—skin and bone. Each rib cast its own shadow in his chest from the torchlight, his stomach hollow. His shoulders and elbows looked like knobs, and Moros could have latched onto his collarbone like it was a handle.
Tears were not commonplace with a woman like Rhyparia, not since she was a child. But this journey managed to pry them out of her every couple of days. It had become too much. Musku had sacrificed his life—and decades that he could have dedicated with his family—for nothing. Director Senex and Pilot Ophala, too ... they had risked everything to save Rhyparia’s life.
She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. Over the past few days, it had become hotter than normal. There was no explanation for the sensation, but she knew that everyone felt it. It only made things more difficult.
Hours passed. Rhyparia’s head drooped, her listless gaze on the wall beneath her feet.
“Light!” someone shouted.
Rhyparia looked up. Even through blurred vision, she could see dim light cutting through the branches of dead trees. If it hadn’t been for someone else pointing it out, she would have thought her mind was playing tricks on her.
“Come on, Rhyparia,” Rayne said. “Push a little longer. Get us to the opening.”
Rhyparia nodded and croaked, “I’m trying.”
“Is the opening not in a cave like back in Epinio?” Biaza asked. “You’d think that Dimiourgos would have wanted to hide the entrance so that the Dark Courage King would never find it.”
It was a fair question. Now that Rhyparia thought about it, why had she expected to see sunlight? Was the hole sitting in the middle of the ground, somewhere in the wide open? Paws pressed into her back, pushing her forward. She turned her head to find Atarax guiding her forward. Was her exhaustion that noticeable?
“You astound me, Rhyparia,” the fox said.
Rhyparia couldn’t even muster up a response. Instead, she put all of her effort into weaving. How much longer until the surface?
* * *
Since Illipsia’s arrival to Phesaw, the school’s campus had slowly morphed into something that resembled more of its old self. New cherry blossoms had been planted in Phesaw Park, stone pathways had been scrubbed to white, and the grass and hedges had been manicured. Wreckage from Storshae and Toono’s invasion years back had been cleared, leaving vacant lots strewn across the campus. Progress had been made.
Illipsia strolled around the main school building at dusk, her gaze fixated on its walls. During the day, it served as a combination of facilities for the refugees, but it mostly acted as it had been intended for centuries: a school. Like other refugee children, Illipsia attended class every day, though unlike them, she gained nothing from lessons; her attendance acted only as a façade. Toono had given her ulterior motives.
Her days were spent scouting Phesaw’s main atrium where ceremonies were held. Between classes, she’d walk the lobby that circled it, eyeing every inch of surface. She’d enter the auditorium and linger inside. A few times she’d sit in a random chair in the stands and simply observe her surroundings. But that had to stop as of late. People were becoming suspicious, curious as to why a girl was wandering the auditorium alone for close to an hour every day.
&nb
sp; Before Illipsia rounded the Spirit Wing, she closed her eyes, tracking any potential presences in the courtyard. Someone was there, motionless near one of the building’s side entrances. It was likely the man whose job was to keep watch of the building at night. His name was difficult to remember, but he walked with a cane, smoked a pipe, and never looked too friendly.
Spirit Director Neaneuma probably assigned him to such a position because of the secrets contained within the school. Unlike the Warpfinate, which had its own set of defenses—the limits of one’s mind—the school building was an unbound book, waiting to be opened. Illipsia frowned; she couldn’t risk getting caught by the man with the cane. He’d alert someone important.
The moon and stars hovered above as she returned to her living quarters. She’d choose another night.
* * *
Illipsia moped. Her chin rested atop her forearm, gaze level with the quill that stood in her ink jar. Pressing her finger against the feather, she pushed it around the jar’s rim out of boredom. The professor was rambling on about fractions—something Illipsia had learned when she was three years old. This was just another mind-numbing discourse to attend for the sake of keeping appearances. If she had it her way, she’d be in a class with people twice her age, but that’d only draw attention from others.
“I’ll begin providing tutoring classes at eight o’clock every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night next month,” the professor said, catching Illipsia’s interest. “Sign-up sheet is sitting on the table outside the door. I hope to see most of you there; you definitely need it.” Her lips pursed. “Class dismissed.”
Illipsia gathered her things with a little more haste than normal, excited by the opportunity just presented to her. She wended her way between desks and lingering classmates before exiting the class and turning to see the table. She snatched the quill from a jar nearby and scribbled her name across the blank parchment.
The Chronicle Page 34
