The Lightning's Claim

by K. M. Fahy

  Kitieri’s lungs felt as if a great hand was squeezing them, and her face broke into a cold sweat. She could see Taff and Jera sitting at the table, awaiting her return. What would they think when the dawn arrived without her?

  She leaned into the stone wall, welcoming its steadfast support as realization sank in.

  “They tried to buy a Gadget for us,” she whispered, “and the Church found out their illegal status.” Trembling against the wall, Kitieri raised her head. “The Church of Histan murdered my parents.”

  Noia pressed her lips into a thin line with a solemn nod.

  “They don’t see it that way, though,” she said. “According to them, Histan himself condemned them for their crimes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you remember the pillar?”

  “The one in the courtyard that you said was terrible?”

  “It is,” Noia said. “It’s how they try accused criminals. They chain them to the pillar for a full day to await Histan’s judgment. If they survive, they are declared innocent and set free. If they are killed by a Strike, then Histan has condemned them, and their souls go to Histan’s hell.”

  Kitieri’s jaw went slack as she gaped at the woman.

  “That’s a sick joke,” she said, drawing back.

  “I wish I was joking.”

  Kitieri scoffed. “I can’t even remember the last time we’ve gone a full day without a Strike. Normally there’s two or three now.”

  “That’s the point.” Noia tilted her head, studying her hands in her lap. “The accused always die, and the Church can claim their hands are clean.”

  Kitieri slumped back against the wall, turning her face to the darkness of their cell. Sickening horror and dread coursed through her, fighting for control.

  “It’s what happened to your parents,” Noia said, “and it’s what will happen to us. They can’t let us go now that we’ve seen their corruption and lies.”

  Kitieri pressed her eyes closed, trying to still her rapid breathing. Panic and dizziness threatened to take over, and she shook her head violently.

  “What about our families?” she asked, the words coming out in a rush despite her attempts at calming herself. A quiet sniffle beside her drew Kitieri out of her own vortex of emotion, and she leaned forward. Moonlight reflected off the tears that streaked Noia’s face, and a perfect droplet fell from her chin.

  “Vina is already theirs,” she choked out. “I’ll never see her again. She’ll be raised as a servant to one of the elites if she’s lucky, just like all the other children who’ve lost their parents to the lightning. I’ve seen it too many times, even after offering to take my nephew in when we lost my sister.”

  “Hells, Noia,” Kitieri breathed, little more than a whisper. “I—”

  “But they don’t know about your siblings.” Noia took Kitieri’s hand in her own. “If they never came looking for you, that means they didn’t know you were out there. Your parents must have lied to keep you safe.”

  Noia’s final word cracked, and her shoulders hunched forward as the sobs overtook her frail body. Kitieri leaned in, pulling her close with her good arm as tears blurred her own vision. A hundred phrases ran through her head, all lies and empty promises. There was nothing she could say to make this better, to turn back the hands of time and erase this evil. Even if she could, it would only put them back to barely surviving. They’d hit a dead end. There was no ‘better life’ for people like them.

  Warm tears fell on Kitieri’s white shirt where her jacket had been pushed aside, turning the fabric cold against her skin. She tightened her arm around Noia, resting her chin on top of her head as she took in the warm scent of her curls. That familiar feeling came creeping back, slithering through the recesses of her mind and chilling her core as she closed her eyes.

  Despair. Hopelessness. Defeat.

  They had been her constant companions since the death of her parents, lurking around every corner, waiting for something to go wrong. She’d defied them time and time again, somehow finding the strength to provide for the family she had left, but they had never truly gone.

  Still, letting her demons win had never been much of an option.

  “Hey,” she whispered into Noia’s hair. “We aren’t dead yet.”

  “We might as well be.”

  “Don’t say that. We can still get out of this.”

  “How?”

  Kitieri took in a deep breath, measuring its slow release as her mind raced. Taff was right. I should have practiced.

  “Let’s just agree on something,” she said.

  “What?”

  “If anything happens to one of us, we will take care of the other’s family.”

  Noia’s hitching breaths had calmed, and her head now rested quietly on Kitieri’s shoulder. When she didn’t respond, Kitieri gave her a gentle shake.

  “Promise me,” she prompted.

  “All right,” Noia mumbled. “I promise.”

  The cell’s heavy door jumped and sprang to life on its hinges, and Kitieri pushed off the wall with a start. Noia leapt to her feet, but the pain shooting down her right side kept Kitieri trapped in a defensive half-crouch against the wall.

  Four red officers entered the cell, placing a torch in each sconce on either side of the door. Behind them walked a tall man in sleek black and gold robes, with a golden sash tied about the waist.

  Kitieri’s lip curled in a hateful snarl, and Stil smiled back at her.

  “Ah, good. You’re awake for processing,” he said. As he came to stand directly in front of her, Kitieri noticed a thin leather-bound book tucked under his arm. “State your name.”

  Kitieri raised her eyes from the book to Stil’s long, pockmarked face, and spat. “Go to Histan’s hell.”

  The officers jumped forward, one grabbing Kitieri by her injured arm while another hit her in the stomach with a leather-wrapped bat. She doubled over, crumpling to the floor as her shoulder screamed in pain, and bit down on her lip to keep quiet.

  Stil crouched beside her, returning a kerchief to his pocket.

  “You really are a violent one, aren’t you?” He shook his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “You just can’t do anything the easy way.”

  “Why should I make my murder easier on you?” she growled. Stil placed a hand on his chest, as if hurt by the remark.

  “Murder? Oh, no, my girl, you are mistaken. What happens now is in Our Lord Histan’s hands. Only He can truly judge the innocent and the evil.”

  “Right.” Kitieri nodded. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, pig.”

  The bat came down on her hunched spine, laying her out flat with a shocked cry. Pain blossomed across her body, Kitieri writhing on the stones with a hoarse moan. She gasped for air as the worst of it washed over her, grinding her forehead against the floor to arch her back until the air could return to her lungs.

  “Are you ready to have a civil conversation, Ms. Manon?”

  Kitieri froze, even in the grip of the pain, and a nausea unrelated to the abuse gripped her. “I never told you my name.”

  “Oh, you told us. Don’t you remember?” Stil smiled again.

  “The fake Gadgets,” Noia breathed. “You asked for our names.”

  Kitieri closed her eyes, fighting the urge to vomit.

  “Kitieri Manon, was it?” Stil frowned as if he was unsure, flipping through his book for reference. “Ah, there it is.”

  “Why did you even ask?” Kitieri’s lips were so close to the ground, her voice sounded strange in her own ears.

  “To see if you were feeling cooperative,” Stil replied. “The answer is apparently, ‘no.’ But don’t worry, I’ll give you another chance.”

  Kitieri opened her eyes, cutting them to the side to glare at the man. He was so smug and proud of himself, it made her blood boil with hatred.

  “Do you have any family, Kitieri?” The dreaded question rolled from his lips like a thick syrup.

 
“No.”

  “Really? None at all?”

  “None at all.”

  “See, I find that very interesting.”

  Stil stood from his crouch, turning back pages in his book as he paced the length of the narrow cell, and Kitieri struggled to regain a sitting position. Noia dropped down beside her, pushing her up to lean against the wall again.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered, brushing strands of hair from Kitieri’s face. Kitieri nodded through her grimace, settling to where she could keep her own body upright. Stil’s voice from across the cell turned their heads.

  “Here it is,” he announced, tapping a page of his book with his finger. “You see, when I heard your name, it caught my attention. Manon is a rather uncommon name in Shirasette, but I knew I’d heard it before. So, I did a little research while you were napping.”

  Stil crossed back from the far end of the cell, his heels clicking on the floor beneath the swishing robes. He snapped the book closed with a sharp pop.

  “As it turns out, your parents denied your existence before they died, as well.”

  Kitieri’s throat closed up, and something about the man’s smug grin sent a hot spike of adrenaline through her body. Her pain disappeared as she launched herself to her feet, throwing her hardest punch. Her fist met the man’s face as if in slow motion, and she felt the crunch of bone as his nose shattered.

  Stil’s shout echoed through the cell, second only to the screaming Kitieri faintly recognized as her own. She saw the blood in the air before the bats brought her down, beating her into a defensive huddle with her bloodied hand over her head.

  “Stop it!” Noia cried behind her. A sudden weight pressed Kitieri to the ground, shielding her from the blows as Noia’s yelp rang in her ear.

  “Noia!” Kitieri croaked. “Get off, they’ll kill you!”

  “No,” Noia said, teeth clenched. “I won’t let them beat you to death.”

  “This isn’t your fight!”

  But the room had quieted, and Kitieri could no longer feel the thud of the bats coming down. They lay in a heap, panting.

  “Charming.” Stil’s voice had lost its drawl, and now carried a dangerous edge. “Get this one out of my way.”

  The weight lifted as Noia was pulled off Kitieri’s back, kicking and screaming.

  “Don’t hurt her!” Kitieri yelled, pushing herself up. She watched two of the officers deposit Noia against the far wall before the heel of Stil’s shoe dug into her spine, slamming her back to the ground. He pressed harder, leaning forward on his knee, and she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head.

  “I am done playing nice,” he said, his soft voice dripping with a deadly intensity. Kitieri gasped for air, unable to breathe under his full, crushing weight. She bucked, trying to get enough space for her lungs to expand, but he stomped her back to the floor.

  “I have given you every chance to cooperate with me,” he continued, “and you have refused. I believe you do have family in this city—two siblings, to be exact. I asked around after hearing your name, and it turns out that a midwife who now works for the Church remembers delivering three healthy children for the Manons, and admitted she was paid to leave without filing a form of membership to either Church. You and your siblings are illegal here.”

  The lack of oxygen sent shooting stars across Kitieri’s vision, and her body was trying to gasp involuntarily. She felt like a fish out of water, pinned to a board by a cruel child to die a slow, painful death.

  “So.” Stil’s weight lifted abruptly, and Kitieri arched her back, coughing and sputtering as air flooded her lungs. “Here’s what you need to know. Unregistered children are illegal in Shirasette. Every person must be part of one of the two Churches from birth. I can appreciate that perhaps your criminal parents did not teach you this law, as they spent their lives in avoidance of divine worship—until they wanted access to a PCR, of course—but that does not make you or your siblings any less illegal.”

  Stil crouched beside her again, cupping her chin forcefully in his hand. When her eyes met his, she saw the smeared blood all over his face and mouth where he had attempted to clean himself up. His nose was flatter in a grotesque way, and blood still trickled down in a thin stream.

  “Here is my proposition,” he said. “You will tell me where they are, and I will graciously allow them entry into our Church. They will be absolved of their illegal status, and given a home here with soft beds and plenty to eat. Isn’t that what you want for them?”

  “To be your slaves?”

  Stil gripped her chin harder, twisting her head until her expression registered the pain.

  “Of course, I can’t force you to tell me, can I?” His smug smiled returned, showing bloodstained teeth. “But consider this. If you do not tell me, I will have to launch a search, and I have never left a search empty-handed. I will find your siblings, and when I do, they will die painful, bloody deaths. You, alone, can choose their fates, Kitieri. What’ll it be?”

  Kitieri stared into Stil’s cold, dark eyes. It horrified her to think of Taff and Jera in the hands of this monster, but she did not for a moment believe he’d let them live either way.

  “I have no siblings.”

  Stil’s gaunt cheek twitched. “Understood.”

  He released his grip, letting her collapse back to the floor, and turned to the officers.

  “It’s nearly dawn,” he said. “Prepare this one for her Judgement at the pillar.”

  Kitieri braced herself for rough handling, starting at Noia’s cry.

  “No, not her,” Kitieri gasped, reaching out a hand. Noia’s skirt brushed her fingertips as they hauled her out.

  “Kitieri!”

  The desperate call raked across Kitieri’s heart as Noia was dragged from the cell.

  “And mount a city-wide search for the remaining illegal Manon siblings,” Stil commanded, following the officers out the door. Turning to her, he finished, “May we find them in time for them to see their sister die.”

  Chapter 6

  The room was deathly silent and still, as if all the air had been sucked out. Kitieri remained in the middle of the floor where Stil had left her, shaking. Her body felt broken, unusable, and pain consumed her thoughts. She was of no use to anyone anymore.

  Muffled through the glass of the cell’s window, a familiar cry grabbed her attention, and she cracked one eye open to see new sunlight creeping along the gray stone walls.

  The shouts from outside carried on, broken by bouts of sobbing, and she made a monumental effort to shake off the pain-ridden fog.

  Noia.

  Kitieri rolled over, fighting to gain a kneeling position with her right arm tucked to her side to protect her shoulder, and closed her eyes in a tight grimace. As badly as she hurt, she was still sure that the worst of her injuries had happened on the stairs outside. The bats, she hoped, would only leave bruises.

  She pulled herself to the window in a limping crawl, dragging herself up the wall to peer through the glass.

  The cell’s window sat just above ground, putting Kitieri at eye-level with the red and beige stones that paved the Square. In the center, the pillar’s stark silhouette pierced the yellow-pink sky. At its base a lone figure stood in chains, dark curls caught on a gentle breeze.

  Kitieri lifted her fingertips to the glass as a tear slid down her face.

  “Noia, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Pushing herself up on her toes, Kitieri almost touched her nose to the glass to test the draft coming in. So far, the air was still clean of charge.

  She turned away, resting against the wall.

  Think. Make a plan. Do something.

  The first step had to be fixing this damned shoulder. She could not afford just one functioning arm right now. Kitieri braced her back against the wall, steeling herself. She’d seen it done at the mines once after an accident, but there had been others around to help.

  “Just pop it back in. That’s all it is,” she told herself. Grabbi
ng her right wrist, Kitieri pulled the arm straight out in front of her. She gritted her teeth against the pain, and yelped at the sharp pop as the joint snapped back into place. With a loud exhale, she blinked her watering eyes and tucked the arm in close to her body.

  Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

  When the worst of the pain had passed, Kitieri turned back to the window. No red officers stood in sight, but civilians wandered across the Square, tossing furtive glances toward the pillar.

  She tapped on the glass, gauging its density; it was far too thick for her to punch out. If she could manage the leverage for a kick, it might be possible, but—

  Hinges creaked behind her, and Kitieri whirled to face the cell door.

  Good, she thought. I’ll kill you this time, or die trying.

  But no one entered. The scrape of thin, flimsy metal on stone met her ears, and Kitieri jumped as a tray of food shot across the room. She looked up from the tray to see the door swinging closed, and lurched forward.

  “Wait!” she cried, throwing out a hand.

  Kitieri grabbed the door’s edge by her fingertips and yanked it back open. A woman in a long skirt and apron screamed, jumping back behind a red officer.

  “Hands off!” the man shouted, whipping his bat out from its loop on his belt. Kitieri ducked into a defensive crouch, but held firm to the door. “Get back!”

  The weapon came up over his shoulder, and Kitieri darted past him before the bat could fall. The woman wailed beside her meal cart, hands waving up by her face as if a diseased rat had just been set loose.

  Kitieri fled down a long hallway lined with identical doors. Her injured hip protested with shooting bursts of pain every time her foot hit the floor, and she cursed the limp’s encumbrance as the officer bellowed after her.

  This is insane, she thought. You’re an idiot for even trying this.

  But she’d had no choice. What more could they possibly do to her?

  A break ahead in the monotonous hall of doors sparked a glimmer of hope in Kitieri’s breast, and she pushed her aching body faster. If she could lose this officer in a maze of hallways, she might stand a chance.