What We Devour

by Linsey Miller

  Of course those born with power were taught to use others first.

  “Look at what he did in Hila.” Safia sniffed and rubbed her arms. “We’re sacrifices first no matter how useful we make ourselves. We will never be useful enough to prove our worth for them.”

  “Why bother?” muttered Basil. “But what can we do? We cannot survive without work, and we cannot survive working.”

  “The looms are easier to work when you’ve got small hands. They couldn’t swap them out, but why bother spending money on new ones when the current ones only kill a few kids per year,” I said and held up my hands. Sometimes I could still remember the steps, so familiar I could have done them in my sleep. “They’d tear off a finger, hand, or scalp if you were unlucky. Easier to have children do it. Smaller hands and smaller chance of us talking back. Who would’ve come to my defense?”

  Low wages, desperation, and the promise of more were as binding as any sigil carved into a chest.

  Basil laughed. “I cried, but then they taught me not to.”

  “Me too,” Safia said. She took their hand.

  “It’s addicting, that first sacrifice.” I drew a nail down my arm. “It’s our first and only taste of true control, but it’s not sustainable.”

  Cynlira encouraged us to pare ourselves down till it reaped every benefit from our scarred corpses and gave us nothing but a false, fleeting taste of power. I had always used my wrights. What was I if not wrought?

  Creek’s ghost, a warm breath against my ear, whispered, “You are a graveyard. You are a garden. Great things may grow from you yet.”

  “We deserve better,” said Safia. “They won’t offer us better, but we deserve it.”

  “We should take it,” Carlow said, “but I’m so tired.”

  “It will take longer to break this habit than it will to rebuild Cynlira.” Safia closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “But once the court and council are gone, once the peerage is no more, once our worth isn’t based on birth or use, and once our bindings are gone for good, for the first time, we will be in control.”

  Basil smiled. “There’s no reason sacrifices have to be physical. We can change that, and the wrought after us won’t have to feel like this.”

  I pushed into the dirt, nails thick with ruddy mud, and reached past the boundary. Every hole I dug refilled. Every wound healed. The Door creaked. “They turned citizens into pieces, all of us, to be used until we can’t be used anymore. They divide us, workers and wrought, noblewrought and vilewrought, small town and city folk. They divide us until we are too small to bargain and can only beg.”

  “Whatever happens,” said Safia, “we have to be together.”

  From beneath the crack at the bottom of the Door came a pale hand, and it reached and reached and reached for the handle to open the Door.

  “They think we’ll try to rule them,” I said.

  “Curse ruling.” Carlow threw a rock at the Door, and the stone sunk into the wood like a blade through flesh, vanishing with a soft squelch. “I want to choose again. The contracts I take. The pain I suffer. The sacrifices I make. I want to be in charge of myself.”

  Safia let out a soft sigh. “What would that be like?”

  “Wonderful,” said Basil. “Wonderful.”

  “When the Door opens, I hope all the other wrought are as brave as you all.” I rose and brushed off my knees. “I hope I am.”

  Some of us weren’t fit to rule, and I knew what I had to do when the time came.

  “What do you need us to do?” Basil asked.

  “The bindings aren’t like normal magic, right? What noblewrought create and what vilewrought destroy persist beyond their deaths. The bindings are more like contracts. They can be nullified by vilewrought destruction or death.” I held out my hand to Carlow and helped her up. “Is there anything that needs to be done to end the binding specifically?”

  “No,” said Carlow, pulling back her shirt. A third of the ink in her chest was peeling away with her skin. “Death of either party is sufficient.”

  “Unless you’re immortal,” Safia said and swatted Carlow’s arm softly. “Stop dying, by the way.”

  “It’s hardly dying when I know I’ll be back,” said Carlow. “I’ve no desire to leave you all alone. You’d be dead in a day without me. It’s just nice to be in control.”

  I sighed, Carlow’s words comforting. I worried, sometimes, that she hoped each death would be the last.

  “We all need to find better ways to feel in control,” I muttered.

  Basil snorted. “Easier said than done but noted.”

  “We have eight weeks until the Door opens, but I think we should prepare to have as many people in the council’s safe havens in two weeks. That way, we control when it happens,” I said. “Help me find the council’s safe havens and consecrated grounds. We’ll have to get the word out quickly.”

  “The council’s what?” Safia gritted her teeth. “Never mind. I don’t want to be angrier now.”

  I rose, ignoring the way the dirt of the Door clung to me and pulled me toward it. “I have some of Will Chase’s ledgers and his map with some of the safe havens on it. What we need to figure out is how many folks we can house, feed, and protect from the Vile in each place.”

  Will had two in Ipswit, a church in Formet where he obviously meant to live, and the church in Felhollow. He’d also bought dirt from an old building too old to be used, and each of us made a list of the lands, relics, munitions stockpiles, and rations that we found. Carlow, who’d traveled the most, mapped out the quickest routes between them and nearby towns.

  “There won’t be enough food,” Safia muttered. “They based their numbers on minimums. People don’t function optimally like that. They would’ve had to expend more to deal with malnutrition and illnesses.”

  “We’ll need to find a way to keep farms working and safe,” I said. “Soldiers and noblewrought only solve part of that. They can’t be everywhere at once.”

  “And we don’t know if we can hold our own against the Vile,” said Basil.

  We needed a guarantee of safety from the Vile. We needed something to offer them so they wouldn’t go after the people of Cynlira, and I’d an idea about who I could offer them.

  “I’ll deal with the Vile,” I said.

  “I don’t want to allude to mass murder, but you’re going to deal with our bindings, aren’t you?” Carlow sucked on the end of a quill. “Unbound, I can solve some of our travel time issues. Mori’s palace is built to house seven hundred peers. It might contain the Door, but I think we can fortify it. If not, that’s still plenty of supplies. Do you really think you can deal with the Vile?”

  Carlow glanced at the Door, and I nodded.

  “How?” Safia asked.

  “I have a few hundred ideas,” I said.

  “Seven hundred and twenty-three ideas, I’d imagine,” muttered Basil.

  The idea had taken root days ago, but now it was in full bloom—good things from terrible sacrifices.

  “I got your message, Baz. What do you—” Hana skidded into the cave and stopped. “What is this?”

  “Oh good.” Safia beckoned a confused Hana over and pointed to a line about rations in the ledger she’d been reading. “How many soldiers does the Wyrslaine house employ, and how much do you eat?”

  “What?” Hana’s mouth twisted. “Why? You overthrowing us?”

  “If the Door opened and the peerage ordered their soldiers to protect only their families, would they obey?” I asked. “Or would they protect Cynlira?”

  Her face fell slack. “You’re talking treason.”

  “What’s treason in the face of a world full of Vile?” Carlow jammed a pin into her small map and cracked her knuckles. “When the Door opens, are you with your court or your people?”

  “Folks have families,” said Ha
na. “Friends. A lot would follow orders at first, but if the Vile get out, it’ll be chaos.”

  “But if you could protect Cynlira at the cost of your orders, maybe your courtier, would you do it?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said, and Safia laced their fingers together. Hana stared down at her. “You’ll need to talk to the others. I’m only Alistair’s guard.”

  “The day after tomorrow, can you get me a meeting with whomever you think I should talk to?” I asked. “And the noblewrought and anyone else you all think we need to bring in. When the Door opens, the soldiers in each holding will have to get who they can to safer areas and protect those who can’t leave their homes. We need to make sure we can get the word to the other holdings fast enough and they’ll listen.”

  It was time for Cynlira to survive without sacrificing its people.

  Thirty-Nine

  The morning before court met to elect the new twelve for the wrought bindings, I woke up at dawn. Creek’s ghost stepped through the door to Carlow’s room as I left mine, and he followed me to the old laboratory. His desk was as he’d left it: a mess.

  “I don’t remember where you tossed it,” I said. “Want to be helpful, guilty conscience?”

  “Not particularly.” He lounged across Carlow’s desk, flicking scraps of paper at the spare stool. “Murdering more people today, Lorena dear?”

  “Hopefully they’ll be quieter than you.” I suddenly understood Carlow better than I ever had and turned to him. “Aren’t you supposed to talk me out of it?”

  “Kill them all. Open the Door. You monster.” He raised his hands, and even though his eyes were a solid sea of blue, I could tell he was rolling them. “I’ve never been helpful before. Why would I start now?”

  I glanced back at him and dumped out the contents of a drawer onto the floor.

  “You’re the one who will have to clean that up,” he said and laughed.

  He flicked another scrap, and the stool tipped over, rolling toward me.

  “Fine!” Creek’s ghost threw up his hands. “Bottom drawer in the metal lockbox. The lock isn’t engaged.”

  I reached into the bottom drawer, pulled out the box, and opened it. A dozen vials ranging from minorative to do not ingest to an unlabeled vial of a white powder that looked like crystals. An old, brown coat was wadded up at the very bottom of the box. “Did I know where you stored this?”

  “You know so little, so I couldn’t say,” said Creek.

  It was the same vial he had showed me so long ago, but when I turned to his ghost, it was gone. I tucked it into my coat and returned to my room. The rest of the morning, I spent getting dressed.

  A freshly laundered dress of pale blue had been delivered to my room while I was gone. Alistair’s meaning was clear—I was his voice and had to look the part. I dressed as carefully as I could, letting the gauzy overdress drape so that it didn’t cover my chest. The Wyrslaine pin pulled at the fabric, tearing it. I slipped the vial and a knife into my pocket.

  “There’s always a meaner hand,” I said and took a breath. “Always.”

  The courtroom had been scrubbed clean over these last few days. I stepped into the large room, sunlight streaming across the floor, and rubbed my eyes. The wooden chairs of the councilors had been removed, and a noblewrought had repaired the bullet holes in the throne and walls. This time, a pair of Wyrslaine soldiers ensured that no guns were snuck inside. Alistair did not come.

  Carlow appeared as all the courtiers were taking their seats. “If they decide on who they want to hold the new bindings, I’m to do it, since I can do them all at once.”

  “Will it kill you?” I asked softly.

  She nodded.

  Of course it would.

  The courtiers settled at their leisure. Several had a soldier accompanying them, making the room a sea of green, blue, and black uniforms. Not a single Wyrslaine soldier was in the room, and the servants left drinks and small finger foods on the table before leaving again. Carlow stood with me near the doors, twisting the strap of her satchel, and I counted the courtiers. Not all of them would be here, and that was ideal. I needed some of them to survive.

  The only ones I needed here were the thirteen with the wrought bindings, and they were spread out across the table.

  “Are all thirteen here?” I asked Carlow. “I only see nine.”

  Carlow used me for leverage to look around and pointed out the other four. I nodded.

  Good. Eleven of them were drinking.

  Take my good memories of Julian, I prayed, and re-create the poison in those eleven cups.

  My noblewright whined, a chill creeping across my chest, and the weight in my pocket eased. It peeled away from me slowly, like taking off a coat. Carlow shifted.

  “Follow my lead,” I muttered.

  “Only today.”

  Once no more people seemed to be entering or leaving, I stepped to the front of the room and bowed, waiting for the courtiers to quiet. They took their sweet time.

  “Thank you all for coming today,” I said and rose slightly, keeping my chin down. Best I not look too sure of myself. “His Excellency is currently dealing with the councilors responsible for the recent assassination attempt and has asked me to assist in selecting the replacement binders. Are there any interested in taking over the contracts?”

  There were thirty courtiers and twenty-three soldiers, and not one of them looked at me with bored interest or disdain. Carra Shearwill and several of the other courtiers bearing sigils sipped their drinks. One poured a fresh cup.

  “Will they be permanent?” asked a tall man next to Carra Shearwill, the high collar of his sea-green coat brushing his jaw. “Given the council’s sedition, will it be revived and the bindings replaced once new councilors are selected?”

  Was it a lie if I honestly didn’t know what would happen?

  “No,” I said and only choked slightly. “The bindings are permanent. His Excellency is quite put out by the council.”

  The courtier on his second cup, Art Carmyth, wiped the sweat from his brow. He owned another of the factories in the Wallows, and poison was far quicker than burning to death or losing fingers to the looms.

  “Carlow.” Shearwill beckoned her over. “Try to create something not allowed. Art wants to know what happens.”

  I narrowed my eyes. Carlow didn’t even blink.

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  Carlow’s death was a spectacle. The tension eased out of the room, slipping away with each spurt of her blood. Shearwill pointed out how Carlow’s sigil bled to the other courtiers and compared it to her dainty scar. Her fingers plucked at her violet dress, letting them all see how hers didn’t bleed at all.

  “It twinges a bit,” she said, rubbing her chest. Sweat darkened the neckline. “It’s hardly an imposition and does allow you to ensure your own contracts are conducted efficiently.”

  Carlow revived with a groan and crawled to her feet.

  A willowy courtier in sunset orange patted her head as if she were a dog doing tricks.

  The courtiers all dressed the same—brightly colored and vibrant, like flowers warning off predators. They were still the richest and most deadly people in Mori, their clothes seemed to say. Bite them, and they’d bite back.

  I approached slowly. Carlow reached for me, letting me wrap one arm around her and heft her to her feet. I slipped the knife from my pocket, using her body to hide it from view, and helped her toward an end of the table near one of the thirteen courtiers. No one paid much attention to us. They argued among themselves about inheritances and which families had never participated in the bindings. The ones I had poisoned were all showing signs of it now, Creek’s creation faster than anything natural. Carlow slumped against me.

  “I saw Del,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen anything before.”

  Take the lives
of the poisoned courtiers as sacrifice.

  “What about you?” called a stout courtier in the back. He gestured at me. “When will you be bound?”

  “Not today,” I said. “His Excellency needs me for his research.”

  The room quieted.

  Shearwill leaned forward, her lips pale. “How were you able to evade us for so long? You are from Felled-Noble-in-the-Hollow, yes? His Excellency has been very reticent in regard to you, and his mother was much the same. You are vilewrought?”

  Destroy the hearts of the other four courtiers.

  “I’m from the Wallows, actually,” I said, “and I’m dualwrought.”

  The four I hadn’t poisoned dropped, heads cracking against the table and bodies crumbling to the floor. The soldiers drew their swords and knives, and none were close enough to reach me. A few sprinted out the door. The courtiers panicked.

  The one near us pulled a dagger on Carlow, the tip skimming her throat.

  “That would be a mistake,” she said, taking the dagger by the blade and ripping it from his hands.

  Behind her, Shearwill and the others I had poisoned struggled to breathe. The courtiers fled as quickly as they could and left me to their soldiers. I held up my knife, and they all hesitated. Carlow grinned.

  “The court and council are done for, and they deserved it. The Door’s opening, and they were content to let us all be sacrificed to sate it and save themselves,” I said. “In ten minutes, all the wrought will be unbound. You may leave, or you can stay and help us figure out how to save Cynlira.”

  The one nearest to me eyed the writhing courtier at their feet and sighed. They sheathed their sword.

  “Should we stop the courtiers?” Carlow asked.

  “Let them run,” I said. “I have other plans for them.”

  Forty

  It took Carlow five minutes after the last of the thirteen courtiers died to give in to temptation. She tried to break her curse, her noblewrought howling so much I felt it in my bones. The scar on her chest was red and raw, the ink a stain on her shirt but gone from her skin, and I had to drag her from the room. She passed out in the doorway, and a soldier in Wyrslaine black took her from me. They flanked me as if I were Alistair. I had them help the soldiers I’d talked to while Carlow was passed out.