Interitum

by M. K. Matsuda

  With a final inaudible whisper, The Ascendant draws a sword, standing to his full height. Gilman sucks in a quick breath as The Ascendant raises the sword high above his head with both hands. Esht glares up at the blade, his expression wrathful as always. The Ascendant drives the sword down with all his strength. Gilman clamps his eyes shut, twisting his lips together with his fingers to keep his gasp silent. The metal screeches as it slides against stone, embedding itself deeply. Gilman’s eyes peel open, his chest heaving with each breath.

  Esht is unharmed; The Ascendant’s blade is driven deep into the ground just beside Esht’s sunken arm. With a decisive movement, The Ascendant twists the hilt of his blade, splitting the solid earth. The stone makes a snapping sound as the crack fissures farther, curving around Esht’s trapped limb. His body shudders from the impact, his muscles bulge through his skin as he strains against the ground. With the last crack, Esht frees his arm from the floor, bringing a giant shard of broken stone with it, still attached.

  Gilman slides his foot back, deciding to slip away. He’s seen too much. But his ignorance of the tunnel’s intricacies betrays him. His hand slides across a loose stone that tumbles down with a crackle. The room becomes silent, and Gilman knows he’s been exposed. His feet still. He doesn’t run. He knows he wouldn’t be fast enough, and his father taught him not to run from carnivorous animals.

  Gilman’s feet lift from the ground as a hand wraps around his throat, pushing him up the wall. He feels his thin shirt shred, grinding against the rock of the tunnel. Esht’s eyes, wild with fury, link with Gilman’s from below. “I’m sorry, m’lord,” Gilman chokes out, barely getting the breath out from under Esht’s fingers. Esht closes his first tighter on Gilman’s neck, making his legs thrash uncontrollably, and his fingers curl. Esht’s lip warps up, revealing yellow teeth, sharp and rancid. He has a ferocity in his snarl, an uncontrollable, animalistic urge to kill. Gilman’s sure Esht won’t stop as his vision blackens. Suddenly he’s released. His body slaps to the floor; he gasps for air, coughing dryly. His head is light, and his chest burns.

  “It’s just the boy.” Esht sniffs, stepping back. The edge of a black cloak comes into focus, and Gilman has just enough breath to roll from his back to his knees. He keeps his head bowed, submitting but also protecting his vital organs.

  “I’m sorry, Ascendant, I didn’t know it was you,” Gilman says, barely squeaking above a whisper. The Ascendant doesn’t acknowledge his words. The fringe of his cloak remains unmoved in front of Gilman. The inability to read The Ascendant’s reaction makes the apprehension all the more terrifying. Is he angry? Indifferent? Gilman can only await his fate with silence and docility, like an opossum playing dead.

  The seconds drag by until Esht responds to an unseen sign from The Ascendant. “No witnesses, we are agreed,” Esht says.

  Panic explodes over Gilman as he grabs The Ascendant’s hem. “No Ascendant, please! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t!” His head is wrenched back, hair clamped in Esht’s fist. All he sees is the back of The Ascendant’s cloak wafting behind him as he exits the cell. “Ascendant, please!” Gilman yells as he’s dragged into the center of the room. His tiny hands fumble at the pulled crown of his head. “Please, no!” he begs again, tears blurring his sight.

  “Shut up!” Esht hisses, flinging Gilman to the ground. He points his stone shard limb at Gilman to keep him in place. Then Esht leans back, looking down the hallway where The Ascendant departed. Gilman sniffles, all his limbs trembling. Satisfied with the empty corridor, Esht turns back to Gilman, who recoils from him violently. Esht scoffs at the reaction. “Stop sniveling, boy, and get me the whetstone.”

  Gilman’s limbs are numb, but he doesn’t let them freeze. Now is the time to be useful, or destruction is certain. When he stands, he’s barely able to overcome his impulse to make a dash for the cell door. It takes all of his strength to drag the whetstone out of the tool room and into the cell.

  Esht eyes the whetstone like a fat ruby. “Pedal,” he orders.

  Gilman obeys, his foot accustomed to the force of the wooden slate under his foot. The heavy wheel begins to spin, Gilman’s foot urging it on faster and faster. Esht lifts the black hulk of rock welded to his arm and drops it on the whetstone. Sparks jump up at Gilman’s face; he leans back and shakes them from his hair. As Esht rotates his arm, the jagged edges and broken outcrops yield to the stone, softening against it. The hulk of dark stone becomes narrowed to the width of Esht’s arm. Any blunt edge is honed to become a sharp tooth. Particular focus is applied to the end, as Esht carefully files it to a razor edge. As Gilman turns the wheel, he steals glimpses at the maniacal glee growing in Esht’s eyes.

  When it’s finished, Esht pulls his arm off the whetstone to admire the smooth, silky blackness. An eerie yellow grin splits across his face. It’s the same sneer he wears after doing something hideous when he’s able to get ahold of an Educator. The look was much less poignant when he was restrained. But now he isn’t, and Gilman didn’t realize what that truly means until now. It means death.

  Esht drops his weapon to his side, the tip almost grazing the black floor where it was born. “You could never have been an Educator.” He muses, slipping a hand across his new limb.

  “No, m’lord.” Gilman almost smiles, feeling the hot rush of a tear along his nose. He doesn’t blame Esht, not really.

  Burke’s thick form illuminates behind Esht. He wields a blade, the small dagger that lives on his hip. Burke raises his arm, but Gilman knows he won’t get farther.

  “No!” Gilman cries. Before the word has even rested, Esht spins around, slicing Burke from belt to throat. Gilman clamps a hand over his shriek as Burke’s eyes roll back to the whites. His wall slams down onto his knees, cracking them. His torso is next to fall, craning down before Gilman’s bare toes. Burke gurgles on the black leaking out of him.

  Gilman is shaking so terribly his teeth are rattling. A movement from Esht sends him cowering away, expecting a furious blow. Instead, Esht’s laugh rips through the silence. “That’s what I call loyalty!” He roars gleefully, his laugh rolling through the room like a wave. “It’s your lucky day, boy.” He claps Gilman on the shoulder so hard his knees buckle. “I always wanted a son.”

  SEPTENDECIM

  A knock at the door. Then another. A collection of nasty names swirls around in Sloane’s groggy mind, aimed at whoever’s on the other side of the door. She drags herself towards the sound, careful to ask who it is first. Erim answers back, and Sloane opens the door.

  “Erim,” she mutters. She looks down at Nim. “Cottonball.”

  “Good morning,” Erim says. Sloane wonders if that’s entirely accurate. He looks her up and down with amusement. “Nice watermelons.”

  “What?” She grabs the buttons on her shirt, fully awake now.

  Erim’s eyes widen with horror. “Come on, seriously? I’m not an adolescent.” Sloane looks down at herself, realizing that she’s still in her pajamas, the ones with the little smiling slices of watermelon. She bursts into laughter, and relief washes over Erim’s pale face.

  He smiles, still slightly flustered. “Just came by to wish you luck.”

  “Can’t believe today’s the day.” The nerves twinge in Sloane’s fingers.

  “You’ve been training for weeks.” Erim chuckles at her reaction. “Aren’t you happy it’s finally here?”

  “Yeah, I’m just not one for crowds, that’s all.” Sloane shrugs.

  “Hmm, well, there’s that trick of imagining everyone in their underwear.” Erim grows a pensive grin. “But the less scarring option is going in with an unapologetic mindset of mental superiority.”

  “You should make that a bumper sticker.”

  Erim laughs. “You’ll do fine.”

  “You think so?” Sloane isn’t sure. “How was your inauguration?”

  Erim hesitates with a weary smile. “Complicated.”

  Charlotte leaps out with an excited squeal, making them both jump. �
��I’m so excited!” She pulls Sloane into a bouncy hug. “We haven’t had an inauguration in ages!”

  “Great,” Sloane exclaims flatly, her eyes begging Erim for help. He shrugs helplessly. Charlotte wraps an arm around Sloane’s shoulder and drags her inside. Erim is foolish enough to follow them in until Charlotte shrieks and stalks over to push him out of the room. “Girls only—you, out!” She slams the door in Erim’s face. “Go get ready,” she orders through the door.

  Unfortunately for Nim, she isn’t fast enough to get out before the door closes. “You can stay, Nim,” Charlotte says. You would think they locked the fox into a room on fire, the way she claws at the door and whines and barks. As Charlotte yammers on about the special day, Sloane takes pity on Nim and cracks the door so she can slip out. When Sloane turns around, Charlotte is looking her up and down. “Alright.” she sighs. “Let’s see what the vestimentum can do about this.” She gestures to Sloane’s clothes.

  “The… what?”

  “Oh, you’ll see.” She grins, raising one eyebrow. “The vestimentum dresses all officials for formal occasions. It’s tradition.” She instructs Sloane on what to do and leaves to wait outside the door.

  Sloane slips out of her clothes and stands in front of her pool. She rests her hand on the cool smooth edge and says, “vestimentum.” She steps in and submerges herself, going deep enough so that each fingertip and strand of hair is under the water. Suddenly the water comes to life around her, swirling and massaging her body. Her hair twists up through the water, and a granulated substance settles on her face. When she surfaces, she feels different. She leaves the water without bringing an ounce of moisture with her. Stepping out of the tub, she’s completely dry. But Sloane doesn’t count that as the vestimentum’s strangest effect. She calls Charlotte.

  The door opens, and Charlotte peeks her head around. Her jaw drops, and her eyes bug out of her head. “Oh my gosh!” She’s breathless. “You’re so beautiful!”

  Sloane steps out onto the floor and turns to the mirror to look at herself. She has been completely transformed into an elegant blue dress, the color of Aquae’s water. It billows to the floor, each bolt of fabric seeming to flow like waves. A wide sash accentuates her waist, and a shimmery translucent material the color of seafoam holds the dress upon her shoulders.

  “Sweetheart neckline, stunning choice.” Charlotte squeaks enviously.

  “Oh, I had nothing to do with this.” Sloane clarifies. Her eyes are decorated with a faint turquoise shadow that sparkles like grains of sand. Her auburn hair has been wrapped up into an elegant bun, although one defiant curly strand has escaped and frames her face.

  “This is so weird.” Sloane doesn’t mean to say that aloud. Charlotte shoots her a disapproving look for her ungratefulness. “No, I mean—it’s… great.” Sloane amends her initial reaction, no less freaked out.

  There’s a knock at the door. “That’ll be Dmitri,” Charlotte says excitedly. Dmitri has to escort Sloane to the ceremony in his formal capacity as Aquae’s Auxilium Anima. Instead, Ben saunters out from behind the corner ceremoniously, in a puffy black and white checkered skirt that juts out at the knee. A crisp black vest is buttoned over her chest, allowing just a patch of the purple top to peek through. Her lavender hair is braided back haphazardly, and a cigarette is tucked behind her ear like always. Shiny black platform boots lace up her calves. Sloane reads them as less of a fashion statement and more of an accessory that helps her stomp on people she doesn’t like. It’s very much the look of a confused tween who thinks they’re too old to dress up for Halloween but throws something together last minute to avoid exclusion.

  “Couldn’t shake her.” Dmitri’s smile is exasperated.

  Ben salutes him ridiculously. “Stand down, soldier.”

  Dmitri ignores her at the sight of Charlotte, newly morphed into a floral picnic dress. “You look gorgeous.” He steps into the room to kiss her on the cheek.

  “This old thing?” Charlotte beams. Ben summons a wet gagging sound from the back of her throat for the occasion.

  As the four begin to walk, Ben stares at Sloane with a predatory grin. “You make a hot Disney princess. Like my dress?” Ben twirls. “It only took seven people to hold me down and get me into it.” Sloane gives her a dubious look, and Ben sighs. “Nine people,” she grumbles.

  “It’s nice.” Sloane smirks. “You’re a girly girl deep down. Quit fighting it.”

  Ben squints at Sloane suspiciously. “Are you finally coming on to me?”

  “Aren’t I a little old for you, Ben?”

  Ben scoffs. “I may look like a sixteen-year-old girl, princess, but I actually have the libido and sexual imagination of a sixteen-year-old boy.” Sloane grimaces at the statement. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  The trees are looped with decorative lanterns and triangular flags. Sloane can hear the crowd's murmur before she sees them in the ceremony area, against the backdrop of enchanting waterfalls and glassy pools. The floor is a carpet of soft green moss, and the trees curve as if watching from above. Dmitri steps up to the edge of the clearing. “If you’re all set, Sloane, we’re off to find our seats.”

  “You’re going to do great!” Charlotte squeezes Sloane’s arm.

  Chairs line the sides of the aisle. The officials are seated at the front, and the Aquaen souls are behind. At the front, Erim’s figure stands at the base of central stairs that lead to the biggest pool.

  “I’m not being tricked into an arranged marriage, am I?” Sloane chuckles.

  Ben looks down the aisle with a shrug. “Guess you’ll find out when you get to the front.” She pats Sloane on the shoulder and begins to walk away. “Don’t trip on that froofy mess you’re wearing.”

  “Helpful and reassuring; some of your best qualities,” Sloane mutters. She turns to the entrance of the aisle and focuses. Somboon sees her and gives her a nod; they’re ready when she is. Sloane pushes all her anxiety into her fists so it can’t petrify her in place. She rolls her shoulders back, trying to assume the most collected posture, and steps out.

  When she emerges, the spectators hush and turn to face her. People’s excited whispers make it difficult for Sloane not to feel like a show pony. She smiles at Dmitri and a teary-eyed Charlotte. She pays specific attention to the faces and creaturae as she passes through the officials’ section. Each animal, if too large to perch on a lap or shoulder, sits dutifully next to its hominum. There’s even a giant gorilla at the end of one row. Sloane wonders which Soul Keeper he belongs to.

  Sloane approaches the stairs where Erim waits, dressed in a navy tuxedo, his feet bare as always. His eyes glow with delight as he gives her a reassuring nod. Sloane climbs the three stairs to Somboon, who dons a festive green sash over his robes for the occasion. Sloane kneels on the small pillow provided and crosses her hands over her lap. The crowd falls silent as Somboon speaks.

  “A warm welcome to each Custos and Pontem here with us today. Greetings to each soul of Aquae. Unfortunately, Pontem Ilir could not attend today, so I will be conducting the ceremony in his place.” He winks down at Sloane, which quells some of her nerves. “We have assembled here today to inaugurate a new Arc into The Midst.” He turns his head to her. “Sloane Lloyd Rory, have you come before this gathering to be inaugurated into the mantle of Arcaism?”

  “I have,” Sloane says.

  Somboon fans out three small cor leaves in his hand.

  He places the first leaf in her cupped hands. “For the souls you send back to life.”

  Sloane opens her mouth, and Somboon places the leaf on her tongue. It’s soft and sweet. “For the souls whom you give a voice.”

  Sloane closes her eyes as Somboon brushes the leaf over each one gently. “For the bridge you see between our world and the one before.” He steps back. “We will hear your binding now.”

  Sloane takes a moment of breath to plan the words, hoping desperately she doesn’t mess up her lines. “I, Sloane Lloyd Rory, henceforth willfully and
irrevocably bind myself to The Midst and the service of its souls. I vow to uphold the true balance of death. I offer my soul unconditionally as The Midst’s instrument to fulfill the truest plan. I submit my soul to serve alongside the Soul Keepers and my fellow Arcs. In performing these duties, I will champion peace and reject malevolence. I exchange all thoughts of self for devotion to each soul under my care. These things I swear until my ascension Onward.”

  Somboon rests a hand on her head, beaming proudly. “Thank you.” He helps her to her feet. “Your Soul Keeper will now escort you to the cor for the blessing.”

  As Sloane steps down to take Erim’s hand, everyone remains silent. There’s no celebrating until the blessing is over. Sloane’s limbs are airy with anticipation. A binding oath is one thing, but the blessing is… something else. Somboon couldn’t really explain it; he said she had to feel it for herself.

  The Arcs and Soul Keepers follow them through the trees. All officials must witness the blessing. At the cor, the Arcs form the innermost circle just outside the frame. The Soul Keepers spread out in a ring behind them. Erim’s the only one allowed in the inner sanctum with Sloane. He pulls back the leaves for her, and she steps into the warmth of the sanctum. They stand together, looking up at the shower of green above.

  “Think I’m worthy?” Sloane nudges him gently.

  “Hope not.” Erim sighs. “That means none of my deviance rubbed off.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Sloane says, pulling up the hem of her dress to reveal her bare feet. Erim chuckles into his hand.

  “See you on the other side?” he asks.

  “I think that’s kind of your job.” Sloane grins.

  She steps into the narrow fissure of the twisted hollow, enveloped in dark humidity. She kneels on the soft mossy center, tracing the striations through the wood with her finger. The lines swirl up into the black knot of the trunk above. She crosses her wrists, palms up like Somboon showed her, and holds them over her bowed head. She holds there, in the stillness, only the sound of her breath to thicken the air. Sloane counts the seconds of a full minute, her pulse racing at the unnerving calm as she peeks over her shoulder.