Interitum

by M. K. Matsuda

  A thought stops the avalanche, and he takes a long breath. “I often wonder about the look that puts on someone’s face. Realizing that everything they thought was wrong. All confidence, surety, sucked out of them in an instant.” A snap startles Erim, though it came from his own fingers, demonstrating the speed of it. “You don’t even know how to diagnose what you’re feeling for days after because you’ve never had occasion to feel it before. But you feel it now, the anger. It’s sudden and deeply rooted and searing. You’re angry that you were robbed of a whole world and that no one understands because they never felt the same way after it happened to them. Maybe you try to suppress the anger for a while, but that only makes it fester worse, so eventually, you give in and let it have you.” Erim finishes slowly, feeling his energy drain. He leans back in his chair, feeling how his words have weighted the air.

  Sloane is frozen, watching him. Erim leans away in his chair as if he could get away from the intensity he just vomited out. His mind fumbles for anything witty to take the edge off, but there’s too much tangling his thoughts. Sloane’s stare feels like it’s burning the rawness he just exposed.

  “Not the simplest childhood then.” Sloane nods, her eyes darting down to his white knuckles gripping the chair. Her hands still from the bacon she’s been fiddling with. Erim’s teeth grind. He just wants to sink into the floor. Sloane holds the bacon out to him. He reaches out, but she holds it firm until he looks up at her. “But you’ve never seen Adrian in a one-piece.” Her eyes are tentative, watching his reaction closely. A laugh startles Erim, echoing in his chest. It slips through his lips before he even realizes he’s smiling. Sloane’s expression eases. She chuckles, conjuring more meat chips.

  DUODETRIGINTA

  Sloane watches Erim’s hands relax. His fingers stretch out, running along the rim of his chair. Her joke was a risk, but he looked so sick after what he revealed that it was all she could say for diversion. She’s so relieved it was taken well—it reinforces her belief that there are few things bacon can’t solve.

  There are three precise staccato knocks at the door. Erim pulls himself upright in his chair, recovering his breath between laughs. Sloane stands to spare him the effort. “I’ll get it.”

  She opens the door to Sisiro, whose face brightens to see her. She can’t return the sentiment because a memory that’s been tapping at the back of her mind finally bursts through. Esht, in the dust of Harenarum, called Rhuso “nephew.” In the evening’s haze, she had forgotten. Now her brain makes all the connections at once, clarifying the deduction. Esht’s brother is standing before her.

  “Princeps Custos,” she exclaims, “what brings you here?” Erim pops out from around the corner, suddenly very presentable.

  “My dear, you know I’ve asked you to call me Sisiro,” he scolds her. “I’ve come to collect you for the convocation. You were not in your quarters, so I assumed you were here.” His eyes dart around the room. There is no quiver in his expression, but Sloane assumes he disapproves. Probably in the time Sisiro’s from, women found fraternizing in men’s rooms were stoned or given lashes at least.

  Ben appears behind Sisiro with the ledger, and he stands aside to let her in. She thumps the book onto Erim’s desk. He cracks open the cover. “I’m going to give this a quick check and meet you there,” he says. Sloane nods.

  “Hope the convocation isn’t too long.” Ben slides up next to Sisiro. “Sloane might be tired. Erim had her up real late last night.” She flashes her teeth at Sloane as the door closes.

  As Sloane steps into the hallway, Sisiro straightens from being slouched in the doorway, making him much taller. “How are you? My son told me you sustained some injuries in your latest battle.” The shimmer of concern in his eyes thaws Sloane. She wants to give him the benefit of the doubt. Even Head Soul Keepers can’t choose their family.

  “Not sure you could call it a battle.” Sloane chuckles bitterly. “I got my ass kicked.” She sucks in her breath, remembering not to curse.

  “I apologize I wasn’t there.” Sisiro shakes his head. “News takes so long to reach Obscuri.” Sloane wonders how Rhuso always seems to show up in time. Sisiro’s robes drag behind him in the dirt as the convocation door becomes visible ahead. Hubble is wary of Sisiro’s dog, though he pays her no mind, eyes straightforward and unmoving.

  Sisiro swivels in front of Sloane, fanning a bony hand over her shoulder. Her steps stop abruptly as she tries not to stumble onto him. “What happened in Harenarum was a senseless, wasteful tragedy.” His words are sultry and drawn out. “However, the toll will be much higher if people are now spurred to arms.”

  Sloane hopes she misunderstands him. “Are you saying you want us to do nothing?”

  “Only that it would be wise to discourage retaliation.” Sloane feels his thumb press down on her collarbone. “Allow me time to handle him,” he suggests.

  “If you could, wouldn’t you have done it by now?” Sloane’s eyes narrow reflexively.

  “I am trying to keep the souls safe.” He sighs. “You must see now that you cannot beat him; it is futile.”

  “What we can’t do is stand by while he hurts people.” Sloane feels the sharpness in her tone. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter what I say. It’s the convocation’s decision.”

  His lip twitches. “What I am proposing is best for the souls the convocation serves.”

  It’s clear his patience is wearing thin, but so is Sloane’s. “Everyone is living in constant fear of being killed by that psychopath,” she says.

  Sisiro pulls back a little as if to see her in full view. He looks confused like her words are incomprehensible. “My dear, you understand the souls are not living… they cannot be killed. That terminology has no relevance in this world.” Sloane has to fight down the reflexive heat of embarrassment. It’s not real, but it’s enough to blank her mind, stalling her next words.

  “It is understandable,” Sisiro says, patting her other shoulder. “You are still fresh from transition, and it is no fault of your own that you are woefully inexperienced in these areas. But you must heed the knowledge of those of us who know this world best.” He smiles, but it’s deceiving. “Your bravery against the Esht has earned you some respect amongst the other leaders, but they submit to my experience.” He allows that a moment to sink in, probing her face for compliance. “Seeking your support is only a courtesy.”

  Sloane shrugs off his grip, making her stance clear. Sisiro nods slowly. “Perhaps their trust in you is misplaced,” he says. “I wonder how they would react if they found out you lied about what you are.”

  Ice surges through Sloane’s body. Her heart drops like a rock. Sisiro speaks so low and soft, it takes her a second to recognize he’s threatening her. The reality sinks into Sloane slowly and then all at once. He isn’t trying to protect all the souls. Just one. And worse, his motive is not the kind easily abandoned.

  Sisiro’s eyes are steely and empty, the creases between them darken. His features seem to change before her eyes. His nose looks sharper, like the beak of a carnivorous bird, and his taught skin looks eerily green in the light. The resemblance to Esht suddenly isn’t hard to see. “Do we understand each other?” he asks coolly.

  “Yes.” Sloane feels the disgust swell in the back of her throat. “I think I understand you perfectly.”

  There’s one seat empty when the convocation begins. Ophelia is absent, but no one expected her to leave Harenarum in its current turmoil. Sisiro takes his seat gracefully; his black cloak billowing over the edge of the chair makes it look like a throne. Erim slips in just before it begins, but Sloane barely notices; she’s robotically focused on Sisiro. He begins by empathizing with the tragedy, saying he mourns for every soul lost. No one else has any reason to be mistrustful, but Sloane knows better. His tone is melodic, and his words have a smoothness that lulls the leaders towards complacency as he preys on their fears. Sloane’s not sure she would have recognized his manipulation before, but now it’s eerily like being the
only one awake in a room of sleepwalking people.

  Sisiro explains how pointless an attack would be after Esht proved his indestructibility in Harenarum. He motions to Rhuso, reminding everyone how his son’s assault with the daggers had no effect on Esht. Sloane almost laughs. She looks across at Rhuso, who’s sitting quietly behind his father. His steady gaze remains on the edge of the table in front of him, away from Sloane. Just when she was beginning to wonder if he’s more than a selfish, angry slab of stone, he tries to glorify himself at a time like this. With Esht, Sisiro, and Rhuso, the absurdity of the entire family is laughable, like a demented circus. But Sloane’s not amused. She wants so badly to expose them in front of everyone, but she knows that wouldn’t help her credibility. She holds her tongue and folds her arms.

  By now, Sisiro’s mollifying persuasion has mostly extinguished the flame for revenge. He says the only way to protect the people is not to provoke Esht. Sloane had hoped that they wouldn’t be swayed so easily, but she can understand their aversion to fighting. They’ve never faced a conflict so big as this. Most faces around the table are demoralized and resigned. A few, like Bastian’s and Erim’s, are not so convinced.

  Sisiro is just announcing a final vote when there sounds a commotion outside. The door bursts open, revealing a formidable Ophelia standing in the doorway. Her thick python Veneno is coiled at her side. There are plasma stains on her clothes, and Harenarum sand dusts every inch of her. Her hair is wild, the waves chaotic and tangled, both eyes swollen with grief. The only clean skin peers through the dried tear marks that run to her chin. She is trembling.

  A man with honey hair and blue eyes runs up behind her and tries to coax her to come away. She slaps him away and straightens, trying to look composed. “What is the plan of attack?” she asks.

  Sisiro’s eyes brush the convocation lightly. It’s obvious he doesn’t feel compelled to answer. “Custos, I don’t think—”

  “We’re making it now,” Sloane hears herself say. She ignores the glare she can feel Sisiro burning into the side of her head. She’s sure he’s not used to being interrupted, which gives her a little satisfaction.

  “This convocation believes that it would be best to leave the disordered soul to me,” Sisiro says gently. “Seeking retribution would only cause everyone undue pain.”

  “Undue pain?” Ophelia looks slowly around the room, her mouth twitching with scorn. “Do you know how many of my souls he slaughtered?” She hisses. When no one replies, her eyes get wild. “Do you!?” she screams. The pitch unsettles some of the creaturae, but Veneno is unshaken. He watches them all accusingly through slitted reptilian eyes. Again, no one answers. “Ninety-three,” Ophelia whispers, almost choking on the number.

  Sloane thought the room was quiet before, but it’s silent now, like no one’s even breathing. Each official is looking down or watching Ophelia soberly. No one had expected the toll to be so high, but there’s a distinct look in Sisiro’s eyes. One that is cold and knowing and unfazed. “Men and women and so many children.” Ophelia’s shoulders shake. Her eyes well up, but her face is hard. Her voice flat and unflinching. “We cannot even identify them. There is nothing but ash.”

  “I understand,” Sisiro says, “but we must think of the greater good for all the souls.”

  “Nothing has been decided yet,” reminds Bastian, supporting his Soul Keeper.

  Ophelia gives him a grateful nod. “This massacre cannot go unanswered.”

  The room erupts; some call for vengeance, others insist on passivity. Sisiro looks at Sloane for her support, his eyes insisting on her intervention. She stands. When the room faces her, she remembers how words leave her in front of an expectant crowd. True to form, when she opens her mouth, no ideas come. Sloane shrivels with dread as she realizes that she doesn’t know what to say to these people. Who is she to ask them to fight?

  The answer comes to her in the form of the meadow on the mountain. Before Sloane brought Esht there, it was her and her mom’s special place. Sloane closes her eyes and thinks of the ladybugs dancing across the grass and the sway of the trees in the breeze.

  Sloane feels the shift and opens her eyes up at the sun, wishing she could feel its warmth. The ocean is on the horizon, crystal blue. The city is settled far down at the bottom of the hill, full of people living their lives. Sloane’s next move is for all of them, for the day they might arrive in The Midst. She looks down to see a small flower with soft purple petals and a bright yellow center rooted between her feet. It strikes her as such a vivid living thing. Sloane bends down, plucks it from the grass, and flashes back to the convocation.

  Her reappearance sends gasps and murmurs rushing through the group. Sloane lays the small flower on the table. “I am the High Arc.” Her voice is so quiet that they might not have heard her, but their shock and awe are unmistakable. Even Ophelia is so surprised it seems to overpower her grief for a moment. She sinks into her chair. Sloane couldn’t bear to influence them wrapped in deceit. That would make her no better than Sisiro. Erim is scanning the room as if waiting for someone to leap up and try to grab her. Somboon’s slight smile is proud.

  Sloane takes the next part slowly, starting with what she knows. “I didn’t tell anyone because I was warned it would be too dangerous.” Rhuso glowers at her. “I’m sorry.”

  Aditi leans forward to inspect the flower. “Esht has escaped Obscuri, conducted himself from Earth, and traveled within The Midst independently of the cor. If you’re the High Arc, how does he have such abilities?” She sounds more concerned than accusatory.

  “I don’t know,” Sloane says. Aditi sits back, looking rightfully disturbed. “So Sisiro’s right, fighting Esht would be dangerous and unpredictable. Some of us wouldn’t come back.” She nods, fiddling with a notch on the table’s edge. “Honestly, I don’t think I will.” It just slips out without her thinking. She looks up at Erim, apologizing with her eyes.

  Some exchange uncertain looks. “But I’d rather take my chances than sit here and do nothing,” Sloane says. “If we’re not willing to take the risk for our people, we don’t deserve to be here in this room.” She looks around at the Soul Keepers, who might have difficulty relating to these stakes like Erim did. “Most of you were too young to remember your deaths. But I can tell you, as someone who remembers hers very well, that it’s a terrifying, excruciating transition to nonexistence.” Ifede nods in agreement. “No one should have to go through that again.” Sloane takes a long breath to steady her hands. She’s unsure if it’s the speech or the subject that’s making them throb.

  “I’ll fight with you,” Erim says. Sloane smiles at him, having expected nothing less.

  Ophelia is on her feet in a second, standing tall, a new light in her eyes. “So will I.” Quiet contemplation simmers in the rest of them.

  “We will follow our Summum Ponti,” says Ifede, speaking on behalf of the Arcs. One by one, the other Soul Keepers agree to join the fight until Sisiro and Rhuso are the only ones seated. Sisiro is tight-lipped, and Rhuso’s eyes are glued to him intently.

  “You are ignorant of Esht’s power, and you have no weapons; no hope of defeating him. I cannot permit this,” Sisiro declares, a superior glint in his eye.

  Sloane was kind of hoping he would say that. “Princeps Custos, in Harenarum, Esht seemed to know your son.” Rhuso looks at Sloane for the first time, his eyes flaming in a way that would make anyone shrink. She hopes being spoken over like a child irritates him; each enraged breath seems to enlarge him. Heads flick towards Sisiro, who is studying Sloane with a new realization. Now, he understands her. There’s a mutter of confusion amongst the convocation. Sisiro takes a silent moment to recalculate, now that he’s on the wrong side of damning leverage. Sloane wouldn’t have used the information like this if he hadn’t tried blackmail first.

  “Being my son, he is, of course, widely known.” Sisiro dons a patronizing smile, unfazed by the insinuation. “You all will be when this is over, since no one can see sense.” He re
laxes his hands into a motion of surrender, rising from his chair. He looks across the table wistfully. “You will serve as cautionary tales for your successors.” With a final pointed look at Sloane, he turns and strides out of the room, his black cloak flapping with the speed of his departure. Seems that Sisiro wants his family business kept private more than he wants to get his way. Rhuso follows, glowering at Sloane, his breath heavy and agitated. She’s glad to see them both leave.

  “If anyone else wants to leave, now is the time,” Erim says.

  “Free from judgment,” Somboon adds.

  “This feels like blatant insubordination.” Nafisa looks around. “Every Soul Keeper in this room wants to protect the souls. But if our Head Soul Keeper doesn’t support this endeavor, maybe it is not the way.” She narrows her eyes at Erim. “Just because some have no respect for authority doesn’t mean we should be complicit.” A few other Soul Keepers look like they have the same uncertainty.

  “Leaving this room will not spare Nubibus, Nafisa,” Ophelia says. “Esht is coming for every terrarum, regardless of the words exchanged in this room.” Nafisa thinks it over and nods in agreement. Ophelia studies the room for signs of weakness. No one falters. Jaws are set, fists clenched.