by Eden Wolfe
Ariane’s heart.
It was what she’d had to do. She had long known that there wasn’t enough air for them all to breathe. One sister-self she could subdue, but two? It wasn’t desirable; it wasn’t even possible. She knew that together they had power that outstripped her own. Her mother had made that very clear.
But Aria had been the one who’d inspired, the stories that spoke of healing, of goodness, of dedication to Lower Earth - they were all about Aria. Aria who brought the Gana River back to life. Aria who heard the ails of the sick and knew the right reaction. Aria who resolved the Rabies-C virus just by looking at the genetic sequence. Always Aria, Aria, Aria.
Yes, it was Aria who had to be killed. The other had been too damaged by her exile in the West Strangelands to ever cause any trouble. In many ways, the Strangelands sister-self, unjustly also called Ariane, was more like the incubates than she was like Queen Ariane.
And Queen Ariane had been the one born in the glass box.
She looked up to the sky and gave a low sneer. So many in their nation who had been damaged due to the decisions of her Queen Mother. Maeva, former Queen, Maeva herself damaged through her own incubation birth.
Ariane had long ago decided that they would never again incubate. Never again in the whole of Lower Earth. If nothing else, this would be her gift to future generations.
May none of them suffer the way I have.
She stepped back from the rushing river collision, away from the memory of the dying sister-self. She lifted her nose into the air, checking for any sign of the Strangelands sister-self.
But there was none.
She hadn’t really expected there would be.
Jumped off the cliffs most likely. Followed the steps of Mother and her mother before. The voices may have been muffled in that Ariane, but she was more damaged than the rest of us. Just like those incubates. She never could have found her way in this world.
Ariane left the river behind her, retaking the path towards Rainfields. She broke into a run, the ground beneath her pushing her forward, doe-like, she grazed the surface. If she was to make it back to the fortress before she was truly missed, she had to go directly. Three days she could disappear and trust all would move ahead as it ought to. More than that and she ran a risk. Irene could cover for her, but Irene would already be on her way to Gana.
The ground turned from rich green and dark soil to the red sand of the Central Mass to the black of lava plains that signaled her approach to Rainfields.
The hum of the voices rose, but Ariane wouldn’t have them, not now. She suppressed their murmurs; there would be consequences for that later. For now, she wanted silence. Silence was a luxury she could never enjoy. Even if she could shut the voices out, there was a constant low hum that was like the generator of Lower Earth inside her.
Still, it was the best she could do.
She approached the cliffs, the pull of them latching onto her shoulders and she nearly tripped forward over her feet as she slowed to a walk. The roar of the water below washed over her like an old friend.
She couldn’t trust the water. She knew its call, knew the lies it told. The promise of peace.
Sailors in the pre-Mist days spoke of Sirens, but Ariane knew the water was no woman. The lies were old lies, the lies of men from generations past. She rested for a moment on the thought and the voices sensed her weakness. They rushed in to fill the void.
“Beware the whisper of the old King.”
“He calls on the waves.”
“Go to him, you’ll see, he’s there, he wants you.”
“He wants to hurt you, go no further.”
“Go, and kill him once and for all.”
“You cannot kill a ghost, not even you.”
“Kill him, stop this call once and for all. Let that be your gift to the generations.”
“There is nothing left to end. There is no king.”
“The King always lives on. He’s just there. He’s not far.”
“The code of Kings thrives in Upper Earth, prepare yourself against them.”
Ariane crouched, covering her ears though she knew that only made the voices echo louder inside her skull. But the sound of the ocean was worse. The call, pulling her forward, she couldn’t let it bring her closer.
She knew her limits.
With the voices, she could listen and make a choice.
But when the water called, she had no will to turn away.
She knew the sharp crags below wanted her blood. She’d seen it. Seen what they did to her mother, seen her mother’s broken body below.
But that was different, wasn’t it? She needed that peace, that satisfaction. She’d wanted it for so long but denied her own need.
Not me, not yet.
Ariane inhaled, letting the air slap the voices back into her gut where they were absorbed into the silent movement of her veins.
She smiled at the horizon. One more confrontation with Rainfields that she had won.
The slightest of sounds caught her ear. It was far away, but its human voice was crystalline. She turned and saw a woman, young, dirty, looking upon her. Ariane focused her eyes. The woman wore the standard-issue of the Dark Counties. Perhaps someone who’d been disappeared, or else a settler fanatic. Given the woman’s distance, Ariane was safe. There was no way the woman could see her in any detail. She was just a spot on the horizon in the young woman’s eyes. But Ariane could see the sweat on the woman’s brow that mingled with the mist that rose from the cliffs.
The young woman spoke in a voice that was half-prayer, half-plea.
Ariane smiled and lifted her arms high, the wide sleeves of her gown wing-like in the coastal wind.
“I hear you, child.”
8
Gillian
The sounds of coughing surrounded Gillian. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t eat. She was walking in a daze most hours of the day.
But the sound of death snapped her out of it every time.
“Gillian! Gillian! My belly, please help me!”
Gillian ran to the second floor of the farmhouse, into the bedroom in the far west corner. She flung the door open where seven children now resided. Seven, where there used to be two.
“Gillian!” A hand rose from the bed to her left. Gillian ran and felt the forehead of the child. It was burning. She ran out again, the child calling after her. She filled one of the buckets she kept at the edge of the bathtub with the coldest possible water and grabbed a facecloth. It was still damp from the previous use but Gillian couldn’t stop yet. She’d have time to wash some of the linen during the night. But during the day, she had to keep running.
She rushed back to the bedroom, water splashing onto the floor as she went. It didn’t matter. There was no one to slip in it other than her. None of the other house family or new residents of her makeshift hospital would be leaving bed.
She ran, falling to her knees at the child’s bedside.
“This will help, little lily-flower. Don’t you worry.”
“My name’s not Lily.”
“Sweetie, keep your strength.”
“My name is Elira.”
“Ok, Elira, rest, hush now. Things are going to get worse before they get better.”
Gillian cringed. She heard her own words. She knew. There was no getting better. Not from whatever had arrived in Longor Town with a vengeance, this unknown and misunderstood illness. At first, they said it was like any other cold, or perhaps a flu. Fevers. Normal. A bug, a germ, it would pass.
For some who had caught it at the start, just those few weeks ago, it did pass.
And then everything changed.
People got sick. And then sicker and sicker. And then they began to die. The prefect from Geb said it was because of the unhygienic conditions in which the Dark Counties lived. They needed to wash their hands. Needed to better dispose of sewage. Anyone living in their own filth was bound to fall ill. That’s what the prefect had said, and Gillian hadn’t forgiven her since.
/> We live properly. We live clean; as clean as we can, given the state of things. This wasn’t us, it’s not our fault.
Gillian couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it happened but it had been quick. She woke one day to find two of the children doubled over in pain. And then their neighbors had arrived at the door, asking for help. Then there were more. Now each of the seven bedrooms had turned into a hospital ward and Gillian was the only nurse. There were a couple of the children who hadn’t fallen ill; Gillian had them sleep in the stables with her. They prepared foods, collected some of the crops, and did anything else that Gillian asked. They were in a state of shock, and Gillian wondered herself when it would hit her.
It only got worse once the first one died. Gillian couldn’t lift the body. She wouldn’t allow the children to see it. The woman had been the kind neighbor who had made cheese on special occasions for them, sneaking it away from the collector’s rations. Gillian had no idea that the neighbor would only be the first of many to die under her watch. She had dragged the body out during the night, when most were sleeping or moaning in the dark. Dragged it to the far end of the former stables, and covered it with hay. She would ask the prefect for help, or at least the women in town, just as soon as she had a chance.
But chances just weren’t coming.
More died.
Her mother’s condition worsened but was stable now. She’d moved Agra downstairs to the sitting room; Gillian was worried that the germs of the other sick ones might infect the housemother and then what would she do? She couldn’t keep this up, not now.
Gillian suddenly felt her age. Young. Naive. Inexperienced.
But she got the energy to continue from somewhere deep within. When she stood in the doorway of one of the rooms, watching the chests of house family, friends, neighbors, and even some strangers lifting with labored breath and then falling again, she felt a wave of wonder and contentment that they were still breathing at all.
After the child, Elira, finally fell asleep, Gillian used the free moments to gather up the dirty linen. It seemed that everyone had the same thing, the same illness, so she wasn’t worried about cross-contamination, but nonetheless, she needed clean laundry, if only for herself. All her shirts and dresses were covered in vomit, blood, and mucus.
She lit the fire under the cleaning cauldron and dropped the clothes in.
The flames licked up quickly and hugged the side of the pot. Gillian got lost in the sight of them, red and orange, rushing upwards, the points of the flames dancing. The white-hot of the center of the fire burnt spots in front of her eyes. She let herself stare. She didn’t move. How good it felt to just stand still. She’d never known how good it could be to go nowhere and just watch colors mingle and crack under a cauldron.
“Gillian,” a voice reached her, quiet, barely above a whisper. Gillian turned and saw Agra standing in the door of the house.
“Mother! What are you doing up?” As quickly as the peace of the fire had come, it was gone. Her mother’s body was so frail, slumped against the doorway. “You shouldn’t be up. You’re too weak.”
“Gillian, you can’t keep doing this.”
Gillian reached the door, putting her arm under her mother’s shoulder.
“I’m fine, don’t you worry about me now.”
“Go, Gillian. You must go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Gillian carried her mother further into the house. “Mother, you must rest. It’s a miracle that you haven’t caught this illness. You have to save your energy.”
“I mean it, Gillian, you have to go. You have to go to Rainfields.”
“Rainfields? Mother, there’s no reason for me to go to the settler’s place. I’m needed here.”
“No!” She said it so forcefully that Gillian stumbled and they nearly both fell to the ground. “You have to go there. It’s hopeless here. Look at us!”
“Mother, every room is full right now. I’m keeping Joa and Lore safe by - ”
“They aren’t safe! This is exactly what I’m saying. Nobody is safe.” She wiped her sweat-matted hair from her forehead. “You have to go to Rainfields, Gillian. Where life began. You have to beg the settlers to cast new life upon us as they once did. There’s nothing here for you. Joa and Lore can do the basics, they’re old enough. You must make the pilgrimage.”
“It’ll take me days and days, Mother. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
They reached the sitting room where Agra broke away from Gillian’s grip. She pulled her spine tall, taller than Gillian ever remembered her being. It had been so long since she’d seen her mother upright. “It is the birthplace of miracles, Gillian. We are beyond any earthly hope here. They are only a couple of days away. There is no question in it. You will go.”
Gillian was beginning to see that she had no choice.
It had been years since anyone she knew or even knew of had made the pilgrimage to Rainfields. It was off-limits, Royal lands, but there were those who claimed the settlers’ life-giving preceded royal supremacy.
Her mother whispered, her lungs filling with phlegm. “Gillian, you must go. There is no hope here, not now. This will take us all down.” Her eyes went so wide that Gillian could see the whites of them. “You can turn this around. You will find something there, someone, a vision, a spirit, I know it will be there, and it will speak to you the words we must hear.” She sat down on the sofa. “The collector came by.”
“What? When?”
“You were tending to the sick.”
“What did she say?” How unbearable that the collector should come now, just as they were doing everything in their power to save lives.
“Don’t worry,” she lifted her hand and caressed Gillian’s arm, though Gillian could feel how clammy it was. “She didn’t come to collect. She came to say that others are in the same position. The illness is picking up speed in the Dark Counties. You see? This is why you must go.”
“And did she say what Geb is doing to fight the illness? Did she even mention Central Tower at all?”
“Gillian, you must learn to know where you stand. There is no savior for us in Central Tower. You must go to Rainfields. Find life again for us there.”
Gillian left the next morning.
Two days of trek and her feet finally stepped onto the lava plains. The start of the place was subtle, black rocks rising between grassy hills. Step by step the black became more visible, rising up under her feet, until her standard-issue boots crunched against only lava rock. The place was vast. Gillian’s back hurt but she didn’t give it much notice. In all the years of settler celebrations and parades and even prayers, she’d never really believed that the settlers themselves could pull them out of despair.
She rubbed her eyes. They had gone dry with the wind hitting at her constantly. How did the settlers manage such wind? Gillian wondered. But the wind was what had brought them to Lower Earth. The legends were varied, but one story was told across them all. Months and years at sea, living off only the most meager of provisions. The number of ships in the stories varied, but there were at least five. The Ganese figured large in the legends as well, being the first people the settlers had come across on their way over the waters. The Ganese had always been known for their water-faring ways. Gillian stopped for a moment. It had been such a long time since she had heard any word about what was happening in Gana. It wasn’t just because of the illness; it had been long before that since any word had reached them at all about the Ganese. And yet they played such an important role in the arrival of the settlers. Gillian found herself wondering for the first time how the Ganese had been so erased from the legends. And more so, how she hadn’t noticed it until now.
A gust of wind caught her just as her toe dipped into one of the channels cut out of the lava rock, and she fell. She heard something snap in her ankle.
Don’t let it be bad, oh settlers. Help me now, don’t let me be injured.
She had days of walking to get home, and there was no tre
e in sight, nothing she could use to take her weight if she’d done any damage to her ankle. She stood up, walking more gingerly now, watching more carefully where she went. As bits of sand stung into her cheeks, she could hear the roar of waves below. The cliffs weren’t far now.
She looked around. She didn’t really know what she was looking for and the backpack was pulling even harder on her shoulders. She had enough provisions to get her home but she was paying the price with her back.
A swirl of movement caught her eye ahead. It was way off in the distance but the ground was flat so she could see further than she ever could in the Dark Counties. Flapping, swirling, Gillian thought it might be a giant bird, a crow whose wings rose higher than any tree. Was it possible? Or had she been walking too long?
Is this the vision I came to see?
She called out to the figure in the distance, not knowing if it was real or an apparition.
“Please,” she cried. “Please, whoever you are. We are so sick. We are falling apart, the children, too. Do you know? Do you know what we’re going through? Do you see everything the way you say you do? Are you a settler?”
The flapping wings in the wind settled at the being’s side, and there Gillian could see it was not a bird at all. It was a woman.
Hair floating in the wind, Gillian couldn’t make out the face, the details too far to be seen. And yet something in the figure was familiar.
“We are sick!” she lifted her voice, calling out louder. They are dying! They are dying in my arms. Please, you can’t let this continue. Tell me what has to be done and I will do it. I can’t bear to feel another body go limp in my arms.” Tears welled in Gillian’s eyes. “They are so helpless. And we have no idea, no way of knowing what to do. Geb is silent. Central Tower is silent. The Queen is silent as we suffer. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it.”
Gillian paused, watching the hair of the figure in the wind. The black wings gently moving in the breeze. She was struck silent by the beauty of the vision.
“I hear you, child.”
The words struck her. Did she really hear it? Was it her imagination? Was she creating sound from a mirage? Something in her told her, no. This was what her mother sent her for. It was not to receive an answer, but to be heard. And then to have faith that what must be done would be done. That the way would be made apparent for her.
