“I . . . I . . .”
He grabs me roughly by the front of my tunic and drags me against him. My hands flail to his chest, pressing against rock-hard muscle, and I gasp. His eyes scan the crowd before looking back at me. “This is no place for you, scholar. You belong with books and useless writings that will support our glorious Celectate in his fine reign. Get back to the temple!” He thrusts me away and it takes every thread of balance inside of me to regain it.
I peer over my shoulder. Celectate Wood has finished his round of gratitude to the crowd. Now he has taken a small sheet from his pocket: the announcement of the accused and his crime. A small white package, dyed a blood-red color, is in his other hand. He palms it gently. For some reason, I shiver.
“Did you not hear me, whore-born? Get to the temple!” The giant grabs me by the wrist – and stops short. His thumb strokes the length of my pulse – the width of my wrist – and when he raises eyes to me, they are startled.
Hellfire! He knows. Oh, gods, he knows!
He jerks me towards him again, this time molding my face to his chest. I smell sweat and dirt and horses – and metal. My hands stroke a familiar shape beneath the rough fabric of his tunic. A dagger.
“Listen to me, little one, and listen close,” he whispers. He doesn’t look at me, and his eyes are scanning the crowd again with a slow ease I do not like. He speaks out of the side of his mouth. “Things are going to happen fast. Things are going to take a turn for the worse. Unless you want to watch your innards spilled out on the ground before you, get back to wherever you live and stay there.”
His hand lingers on my shoulder and he leans down to stare me full in the face. He shows no recognition of who I am. Why would he? He is a street urchin. I am nobility.
“Hell’s breaking chains today,” he says.
He walks away, pushing through the crowd, drawing closer to the Celect Knights surrounding the platform. Surrounding Lord Telman.
Getting home sounds like a good idea. But as I turn – as I try to shove my way through the dense crowd – I sense it again. The hair on my neck rises. The two scars on my neck pulse with the sudden danger, and my vision grows hazy for a moment as it digests the motions within the crowd.
Not now. Please, not now.
Ever since that night, things have been so strange. My body senses things I cannot even acknowledge and weakens me. It makes my head hurt. My body ache. My skin buzz.
And the scars pulse.
Throughout the smiling faces of some within the crowd, there are others. Caped figures. They push closer and closer. Closer to me. Closer to the Celect Knights. Closer to Lord Telman.
Hell’s breaking chains today.
“Lord Telman has been found guilty of high treason and intent to bring destruction upon Kelba. He has attempted an atrocious act, not only against me, but also against you, the good citizens of this fine nation. He has stepped out of his boundaries as a man meant to protect you, to protect me, and must receive punishment for it. He robbed you of your money to build his army. He robbed you of your sons to fuel his goals. He robbed you of your trust. Such a man is not worthy to sit in my company, much less yours. He is to be ostracized this day – and his foolish errand will be banished with him.” Celectate Wood’s voice rings with passion. With power.
I know why he hates Lord Telman. I have heard both of them speak. They are eloquent and open, possessing a strength with their words one can only wish for. Their abilities rival one another – and that is why they loathe each other.
“I know you would expect such a man to defend himself at this point.” Celectate Wood peers over his shoulder in Lord Telman’s direction. The hateful gaze has not left the High Lord’s face and he struggles with his bonds, his face turning a violent purple. But he says nothing.
“Of course, he never was one to use his tongue wisely.” The Celectate smiles when Lord Telman makes an enraged sound from his throat. He strokes his thumb along the tiny white package in his hand.
My stomach drops.
“So I had it removed.”
The Celectate tosses the blood-red package at Lord Telman’s feet and it unfurls. I stare at the bloody lump within and nausea strikes my gut.
People in the crowd cheer – but not all of them. I sense the tension, the rise of suppressed fury, in the bodies packed close around me.
Celectate Wood turns. “Brand him.”
The tension snaps!
From somewhere in the crowd a man screams, “Lothalar leran de revalan.”
Ancient Kelban.
“Long live the rebellion!”
Rotten garbage assails the air – assaults the Celect Knights surrounding the platform. They try to take cover behind their hands, their shields, or the bodies packed close around them, but they are stained in moments. Some wipe the debris from their eyes while other gag on the diluted waste in their mouths.
“Control!” Celectate Wood screams.
From a canopied platform near the Square a squadron of Celect Knights rush forward, swords drawn and shields up, as new assailants batter the guards. I spot the tall giant leading the procession, his dagger out and ready. It shatters the breastplate of a man in front of him, spraying blood across the stones.
From behind me, a hand shoves me aside, and another attacker sweeps by me, sword raised. He smashes into the guards and breaks through, violently charging the podium steps and lurching onto the platform with an expert somersault. He slashes his sword in Celectate Wood’s direction but a flying blade embeds itself in his side, stopping his attack. Blood spurts onto the wood and he falls, clutching at the offending dagger.
The Celectate reaches down and plucks the dagger from the man’s side. He gets on his knees before the man and his lips move. I do not hear what he says. I am too far away. He slits the man’s throat.
The surprise attack slowly settles into the minds of those who were cheering moments ago and then everything goes crazy. People scatter, for cover or for weapons, and join the fray. A fist slams into my shoulder. Another into my ankle.
I have to get out.
From close by a woman screams and falls to the ground, blood dribbling from her mouth. I step over her. A man to my right grunts in pain as a fist cracks into his knee. I hear the sleeve of my tunic tear. Feel the grope of hands around me. Sense the heavy presence close behind me.
An arm loops around my middle.
“Look here! I have one of them damned temple scholars. Are the gods gonna help you, little prick?” The man’s hand rips the head covering away. My hair tumbles down about my shoulders.
“Stars! A girl!” I recognize the tone in his voice. It is the tone used by drunken men in taverns when they’re overcome with violent passion.
A hand slides beneath the tunic, up my leg, to the waist of my pants, and . . .
I hear the crack of bone – the scream of pain.
I am released. Someone grabs me by the wrist and jerks me forward. I flash past sprawled bodies, wrestling, half-crazed people, and into the streets where other, saner folk are fleeing the riot. My rescuer turns a corner into an alley and practically throws me into the wall.
“I told you!” It is the giant from before. Blood is splattered in diverse patterns across his tunic and face. “Did I not tell you, girl, that hell was breaking chains?”
“You did.” I shoulder my book bag again, surprised it’s still intact. Moreover, a bit relieved as well. Three years of hard work would have been lost.
The giant man slams a fist to the wall, the scar on his face crinkling up horribly. He groans in exasperation before looking back in the direction we came from. The screams are starting to fade and the noise of battle is dying. The cold glitter disappears from his eyes, replaced with something else. “Fools! All of them. We try to liberate them – and they walk into the chains willingly.”
“Were you not trying to start a riot?” I ask.
“Of course not. We meant for the people to rally behind us. For the people to demand Lor
d Telman’s release. Not for them to become little children and attack the Celect Knights themselves. Or the Celectate.”
“But you were attacking them too.”
“When I had no choice. I would not watch my comrades die when I . . .” He stops and looks at me, his brow creasing. He looks me over, from the mass of hair to the tips of my misplaced boots.
“You are nobility!” he snaps and turns to go.
I grab at his wrist. “Lord Telman was nobility. You did not mind helping him.”
“Twas not for him I did it!” the giant roars and shakes me off. His eyes dilate with fury. “I did it for those fools out there. Lord Telman risked his neck for them. I admired that. But it was all for those fools. They do not understand what they have done. We have lost our cause this night. We have lost our fire. We have lost . . .” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. The spark of rage disappears.
“We have lost our symbol.”
He starts to go. I don’t grab him again. I shouldn’t ask him what he means. I should let him walk away, out of my life, and pretend that this day – that the riot – never happened.
But I ask anyway. “What does that mean?”
He doesn’t turn around.
“It means cowards have returned to chains.”
Chapter III
It is long-past the setting of the sun when I reach the gate of my home. The Bone mansion is one of the largest, considering Father is one of the richest High Lords, and rises on a small hill of the street that allows a brief view of Kirath from the second-story window of my room. I sneak through the half-open gate, which our kindly guard has left unlocked for me tonight and around the edge of the house to the kitchen door. The cook will be in bed. The kitchen maid asleep. I will go undiscovered. Mother and Father would have been watching the ostracizement from a platform nearby and their carriage will be stuck for hours in the traffic of the riot’s aftermath.
I step into the dark kitchen. The dull light emanating from the fireplace embers gives the room a slightly eerie presence. I watch the shadows dance on the walls. My skin prickles. They look too familiar. Too horrifying. Too real. I expect them to jump out at me from the darkness and grab hold of me. I wait for my blood to stain the floor. But, like always, nothing happens. I grip the edge of the table while the nightmarish imaginations subside.
The heavy book-bag falls to the ground with a thud.
“Home at last, Kyla?”
I spin around, startled by the voice. Mother stands in the opposite doorway, her form cloaked in a half-torn black dress. One of her sleeves is missing. However, she is whole. She is safe. And she is frowning. She brings the lantern closer and it reveals my disheveled form. Not only my disheveled appearance but also the way in which I wear that appearance. Out of the many excuses I’ve abused in the past, I don’t think “playing dress-up” is going to wave this one by. Not when I’ve got remnants of strange blood splattered in meandering splotches across the fabric.
She gasps.
“It’s not mine,” I assure her.
The silence that follows is deafening. I wait for an explosion. A tirade. A scolding. A flogging. Instead, Mother steps forward and fingers the torn sleeve of my tunic – of a boy’s tunic.
“Was it rough in the crowd?” she asks.
“Excuse me?”
“When the riot started, I mean. You weren’t hurt too badly, were you? Oh, your lip’s bleeding. And your neck is bruised.” The soft chastisement sounds like a caress. Her hands stroke the bruise, and I wince.
“I got out better than some people did.” How I wish to say more. I wish to call the Celectate by a hundred vile names. I wish to stomp on his face. To tear out his own damned tongue. To watch his blood stain my fingers. He started the riot. He ignited the crowd. He ruined it all. But I can never say any of that. My father is a High Lord. And a High Lord whose daughter has treasonous opinions will not reflect well on his position. I cannot shame him. I cannot betray him.
I cannot endanger him.
“What about you?” I ask.
“Your Father and I were feeling tired. Therefore, we left with his Excellency’s permission. He could see I was feeling faint.” Mother smiles temptingly and runs a hand across the bottom of her jaw with a smooth sweeping gesture. Flirtation. Every woman of nobility knew how to use it to her advantage – every woman but me. The thought of my mother looking that odious man in the eye and flattering him with pretty words makes me sick. But I don’t say it.
If they left that means Mother didn’t see the tongue. Nor did Father. They do not know the truth. By tomorrow, the gossip will provide a dozen different scenarios. And the nobility will pick the one that least implicates the Celectate. I will be unable to tell the truth of what happened. I was not there. I was not there.
But I was there.
“You were at Master Rolfe’s again, weren’t you?” Mother asks.
Again?
“You know?” I ask. No wonder she wasn’t shocked by my apparel. “How?”
“Do you think me blind? I’ve seen the books in your room, Kyla. The amounts of studying you do. Where would you get such education. Certainly not that odious teacher you had last year. And your brother’s more of the troubadour than the scholar. And I just happened to discover your head covering on your desk just days ago.” She smiles wisely. “Why else would you need to hide such luxurious locks, darling?”
Mother had scolded me for years whenever I would return from one of my mischievous romps with my brother and his friends. She had hired etiquette teachers and organized feminine parties and daily visits to neighboring nobility in an effort to cleanse me of what the temple priests called “inner demons.” And now she discovers me sneaking through the kitchen, dressed as a boy, torn and bloodied, and she has no lectures for me?
“You aren’t mad?” I ask.
Something snaps in Mother’s eyes and she looks at me. “I was mad when you pranked Lady Eloise with a roach in her teacup. I was mad when you joined your brother on a journey for lost gold that sprained your leg and lost you two teeth. I was mad when you climbed the roof of this very house looking for the stars your brother insisted would come into your hands. I was mad when you climbed the vine outside your bedroom window to see the new-born foal come into this world.”
She leans close and taps my forehead. “I have never been mad at you for wishing to improve this. Foolish pranks are one thing. Knowledge is quite another. I want my daughter to be one of the finest, greatest, strongest, smartest girls Kelba has ever seen. And if she has to sneak out of this house, dressed as a boy, so she won’t stain the family name, I would call that ‘honorable.’ Not ‘unseemly.’”
I don’t know what to say. I haven’t the words to describe what I wish to convey.
Mother pats my shoulder. Her eyes dart to the bruise she said was on my neck. “We will have to do something about that,” she says solemnly. “The First Moon Festival in honor of Celectate Wood’s twenty-five year reign is two days away and we don’t want you under too many suspicions.”
“He’s still having it?”
After everything that happened today – all the lives lost, all the bloodshed, all the havoc created – Celectate Wood would continue with the celebration. As if one of his High Lords had not been ostracized – again. Lord Telman was the third one this year! The Community was supposed to have twenty High Lords. Now it was down to twelve because of “high treason” edicts.
Mother nods but says nothing else. She cannot. She would disapprove the Celectate. That could be considered a sign of displeasure. And displeasure, in the Celectate’s opinion, was a stepping-stone to high treason.
I took that step long ago.
I haul Master Rolfe’s books onto my bed and lay them on the coverlet until they span the eight foot width. One of them has to contain new information.
I believe deeply in the tales I’ve been raised on – I believe there are nightmares and terrors beyond the Wall. I believe there are monsters unheard
of lurking in the wasteland known as the Wilds. I believe there are cannibals that will tear my flesh from my body and eat it raw between their rotting teeth.
However, I do not believe that everything is as I’ve been told. Everything has lies when you look close enough.
One of the books contains a map of Kelba before the Great Calamity and I stare at its wondrous expanse of land. A land now divided by a Wall that protects us. We were once the greatest nation of its time until the dreadful poison ate half the kingdom. Before the Celectate took the rule with promises for a stronger, better empire twenty-five years ago. It was long before my time but historians write of the Celectate’s empowering speeches and his ascendance to the reign as if he were a god. He saved Kelba from ruin – but I smell lies beneath that phrase wherever I go.
History books only tell half of the truth.
I want the other half.
Chapter IV
Learning to observe the best moments to slip out of the spotlight is a skill one does not easily acquire – especially if you’re a High Lord’s daughter. I have been the “star” of the spotlight since I turned seventeen years old last fall and every eligible young – or old – man has made it his priority to gain my attention. I am not the only High Lord’s daughter who has come of age, but I am one of the richest. I will inherit forty percent of my father’s diamond mines upon marriage. And what belongs to the wife belongs to the husband so, in truth, my husband will gain more than I will.
I have to wait until some of the other well-known eligible doves enter the room before planning my get-away. First, I must wait for the proper change in tide. When no eyes stare at me and the magnificent, sparkling white dress robbing precious breath from my lungs. Then I must wait for a distraction. Usually at gatherings like this a servant will trip over his own feet, a young nobleman will overstep his boundaries, or a servant will drop his entire tray of delicate pastries on the ground. I opt for the third distraction and nonchalantly stick the tip of my toe out from beneath my gown, apologizing under my breath for the havoc I’m about to cause. But I cannot stay here any longer!
Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1) Page 3
