The Sunderlands

by Anastasia King

  8. THE CORONER

  Reclining in a chair in my corner of the War Tent, I open a dusty book titled, “The Hands of Gods.” A brief account of those who have served the Gods. It’s shabby and incomplete, and I’ve read it a hundred times. It never tells me something new, but it’s oddly comforting.

  It’s easier to cope with anxiety when you’ve identified it, tucked it under the covers of a book and can look at it when you want. This book has become a journal of sorts. I’ve annotated the margins with my thoughts about the Gods and their servants. I’m sure the author would be pissed, but that’s how I learn from the books I read. By writing all over them.

  My mother brought the book — among many others — in a lockable trunk from the Ro’Hale palace. She’d acquired the small, portable library before she married into the clans. I inherited its entirety since Liriene doesn’t know how to read. I’ve offered to teach her, but she thinks it’s inappropriate. Well, father has convinced her it is. Most females in the clan are illiterate, except me because I’m special or whatever.

  Right hand of Death, Child of Mrithyn.

  My people call me the Coroner, servant to Mrithyn. A mortal who oversees the passage of souls. Mrithyn exists in all living things, His power of entropy is a force of nature. It was mortals who perverted this power, who began killing. Death can only claim a soul from a body that has failed it. He cannot kill. He is peaceful.

  Mrithyn is called by the anguish of dying souls. When mortals are at war and a river of blood flows, it awakens Him. According to the book I’m reading, the Coroner before me existed over a century ago. The Gods only call out servants when they deem it necessary. Mrithyn uses Coroners to stop the aberration of His power.

  Ahriman, the God of Chaos and War, is the natural enemy to Mrithyn. He disturbs the hearts of men, lures out their wrath and is the origin of all dissatisfaction. Those who lust, who idle, will seek Him out and do His work. I can’t understand how there could ever be a time for a servant of His to rise. If the purpose of the Gods’ servants is to better our world, their kingdom, what could an instrument of war do to benefit the world of Aureum? There is no servant named in the book, but a guess at his power is scrawled in a shaky hand. As if the author feared to even imagine it.

  This book says there is only one Coroner at a time. As the mortal instrument of Mrithyn, I have earned an appropriate level of reverence from my kin. I’m one of a kind. Still, fear stains their beliefs. They misunderstand me, my power. As a mage, I’m already exotic. As a servant, I’m akin to the divine. Some see me as a Goddess. An Oracle. Some believe I bring death. The last Coroner, whose name was Geraltain, was also feared by his people. I don’t blame anyone who’s terrified of a Coroner. We possess the Death Spirit… or it possesses us. Either way, we’re far from righteous. Who wouldn’t fear a person who is supposed to be dead?

  What the hell am I doing here? I stare at my hands, the pages of the book beneath them. Blood pulses through me. I’m alive. And I shouldn’t be. I’ve been living on borrowed time since I was seven, and now I’m a woman. Nobody gets that it still freaks me out I’m even here. How could they? They don’t really know what happened to me. It’s still boggling me to this day.

  Either way, here I am. Now, I’m supposed to fix the world? Make it better? How am I supposed to do that with the power to kill? It’s been my lifelong question. My conversation with my father got me thinking, and my well-loved yet insufficient book tempted me again. Maybe there’s something in here I’m not seeing. But the more I read it, the more I see the abrupt ending, and the more I question.

  “You are asking the wrong questions,” the Death Spirit hisses in my head.

  Cue the delightful little curse on my soul! ‘Tis a bloody pleasure. I bristle at the intrusive thought and shake my head. I’ll ask whatever the hell I want.

  Like, whose idea was it to force a God’s nature on a mortal? Did they really expect this to work? The book says nothing of whether Geraltain was cursed as I am but lists his many horrific deeds.

  I wonder, if my curse is bloodthirstiness because I’m the mortal hand of Death. Does the servant to the Goddess of Life get blessed or cursed? Blessed with boundless lust for life, ambition, eternal life satisfaction? Or maybe they’re ridiculously fertile. I almost laugh at my own thoughts. Imagine, the servant to the Goddess of Life is cursed with an over-powering need to procreate. What would their power even be? The author obviously didn’t know.

  An hour into the book, a hand slams down a piece of paper on the desk I’m using as a footrest.

  I cast a lazy, “Hello, Indiro,” over my pages. I know that temper anywhere.

  “Coroner, you’re aware the last of the nine died last night?” He asks through gritted teeth. I drop the heavy book on the desk and glance at his scrawl:

  Katrielle

  Hayes

  Cassriel—

  “Well aware.” I lean onto my elbows and press my fingertips together in front of my nose. With an expectant wave of my hand, I meet his dark brown eyes, “And? Do you want to proceed with their burial ceremony, or will we postpone it until the end of the week? Surely, there will be another attack and more casualties. Easier to pile the bodies at this point than dig individual graves.” I’ve run dry of emotional energy, but I know I didn’t mean that. He knows it too.

  Indiro places his hands on the desk, bringing his long nose low toward me. His gray hair, loose on his shoulders, shadows his face.

  “There already was another attack.”

  I jump to my feet, matching his intense stare. He growls as he pushes himself off the table. He stalks over to the map that dresses the largest table in the room.

  Tiny, hand-painted figurines representing the clans and the Dalis soldiers dot the map. White horses are for us, the Ro’Hale Clan, red birds for the Massara Clan, green fish for the Hishmal Clan. Black bears mark the Humans because they gather under the banner of the Grizzly King. Black bears surround the white horses, but we’re standing proud as ever. The red birds are dwindling. They’re still holding the border with the Baore. The clan, Allanalon, the oldest clan out of the four remaining, is represented by two blue snakes. I’ve always wanted to go see the other clans, but I’ve never left my own. Except to hunt.

  He swipes a trembling hand across the map, scattering all the little figurines of green fish. He turns back to me, shoulders rising and falling raggedly.

  “Hishmal has fallen.”

  Indiro bends down and picks up a figurine. He stares at it before squeezing it into his fist. His shoulders jerk. My brows shoot up in surprise. He rubs his hand over his eyes, but he can’t stop the tears. He thuds into the nearest seat. I rub my hand in circles over his back until he stops, staring and lost in thought.

  Did I predict this consequence of the Hunt? I told Ivaia there would be consequences if I’d gone alone. Did I cause this?

  “There’s a Human encampment close to here. Elves must have attacked them, and they lost many soldiers in the dead of night. Shortly after sunrise, they marched their remaining forces on the clan. Hishmal never stood a chance. They burned it to the ground.”

  My blood stands still in my veins. “Burned it to the ground?”

  “Everything is dead, there’s not a worm in the earth. My friends, my family. Ashes!”

  “And the Dalis? Have they retreated? Did they take the grounds?”

  “Let’s go after them!” The Death Spirit rumbles within me. “No,” I silence her and clench my fists. “More will die.”

  “Take it? There’s nothing left but the gates! Elistria Kingdom soldiers put out the fires and drove the Dalis out, but they wouldn’t have stayed. The earth is burned, there’s nothing there.” Indiro says.

  His red-streaked eyes searched mine.

  “Queen Hero isn’t going on the offensive. Yet,” I say.

  “She won’t,” He says.

  “She might.”

  “When your mother left the kingdom to come dwell in the clans, she asked me if I
wanted to stay behind. Live out my days at court. I never looked back. But maybe if I’d stayed… if I’d rejoined my brothers in arms, I’d have been close to the captain of the army, the Queen herself. I would not have sat idly by while these dogs swarmed our land and killed innocents.”

  “You also would have missed out on the family you’ve found here.”

  He shakes his head and presses his fingers to his brow. “I feel like I failed a test.”

  I turn back toward my desk. Folding the list into my pocket, I pass him and head out of the tent. I desperately need air.

  I don’t need this list. I took it so he didn’t have to see it anymore. I left so I didn’t have to see him anymore. My body feels like a stranger to my mind as I reel from the news. He’s not the only one with deep regret. I was supposed to be the tenth. If I’d been there with the nine… if I’d been able to control myself last night, I wouldn’t have woken the wrath of an entire military camp. No. I’m the one who failed.

  Last night was as much about my desire for revenge as it was about the nine, I’ll acknowledge it. One decision and now I must clean up the mess. What I wish I could do is cleanse the Sunderlands of its blight, of Men. As much as my Death Spirit would love it, rampaging isn’t a solution. I need to carve my place into this world without bloodying it more. I just don’t know how to do that yet.

  A cold breeze chases after me as I turn a corner and come to face Katrielle’s dwelling. Her mother must be inside. Lanterns are lit. I spin on my heel, trying my best not to notice the darkened horizon, where black smoke still stains the sky.

  Since my mother died, Death has haunted me. Now, it seems desolation plagues my every step. Every action, no matter how holy the intention, warps into ruin. My actions wiped out a clan. I killed. More died.

  It was only supposed to be nine.

  My inner beast, the tainted side of my soul, knows no boundaries and feels no regret. The side of me fighting for control hates myself. I don’t belong here. I don’t deserve to be here. Now, I’m clutching a piece of crumpled paper with the names of my dead friends written on it. It’s like I’m running in circles all the time, and Death is always right behind me. Nowhere to turn without seeing Mrithyn’s fingerprints all over my life.

  This is who He’s made me into. This is my duty. A lone guardian, raising a lamp to light the passage from our world to His. To walk the shoreline between the world of life and the waters of death, to ford the river time and time again. To lay the fallen to rest, to comfort those left behind. This is who I became when Death knocked, and I opened the door.

  His fingers brushed my long black hair behind my ear, turning each strand white as the full moon. His hands wandered along my arms, strengthening my muscles, lengthening my bones. He set fires in my veins. His hands covered my mouth, my eyes, my ears, changing all my senses to those of a predator.

  He placed a seed of darkness on my tongue; a mite of his power, and I swallowed it. I wiped a streak of blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. It took root in my soul, turning it blue and dark as the midnight sky, sparking stars into existence within me. Blue like fire, deep like eternal slumber. And when I awoke, I was something from a nightmare. He filled my mind with a solemnity, so I did not grieve my loss.

  I cannot sit and cry with Indiro until I fulfill my obligation to the nine by performing the rites and comforting those they left behind. After my nine, I will mourn Hishmal. At this point it’s not a question of who will die— but who will I weep for first? Lucius is the name that screams at me from the paper, so his family’s dwelling is where I’ll go. Perhaps Ivaia was wrong. Maybe I’ve been running away from what’s right this entire time and straight into the arms of my worst influencer.

  After visiting the eighth house, I lift my red shawl over my hair and head back toward Katrielle’s house. The steps up into her old home stretch before me, the darkness of the night threatens to swallow me whole. I glance up at the moon. “Adreana.”

  I wait for a silent moment, for a wave of comfort to wash over me, but none does. Because I am Death’s right hand and there is no comfort for that.

  Her mother is crying. I hear her meek sobs through the window.

  “Lysandra,” I call out.

  The crying stops and footsteps shuffle. I straighten my back, preparing myself to see the pain in her eyes, the anger. I half expect her to turn me away, to curse me.

  The gray-haired woman, much smaller and stouter than me, folds back the entryway curtain. She knows my red shawl.

  “Oh!” She bursts into tears and launches toward me.

  Her thick arms wrap around my neck and her wet cheek presses into my own. I struggle to keep my balance and my composure as she weeps on my shoulder, trying to manage words.

  I shush her gently and stroke her matted grey hair. We sway in the doorway, and my throat tightens around my planned words of consolation.

  She holds me back from her face to stare into my eyes. A faint, sad smile trembles on the corners of her mouth. “Keres, come inside.”

  Lysandra pours me a steaming cup of tea with shaking hands. I offer to take the pot from her and pour her a cupful.

  “I spoke to Hayes’ brother this morning. He isn’t doing well. Left early, traveled to Massara to be with his family,” she says. “They were to attend the wedding.”

  I wrap both my hands around the cup’s warmth. “I can’t imagine any of us are doing well. I myself…”

  She wipes her eyes and pats my shoulder before taking a seat across the table from me.

  “I don’t know if I should go forward with my wedding,” I say.

  She makes a clicking sound with her tongue and shakes her head.

  “It feels wrong. It’s inappropriate to be marrying and celebrating when we lost them.” It feels wrong to be breathing while they’re not.

  She waves her free hand while she lifts her cup to test the temperature of the tea. She braves a small sip, swishing it in her mouth before taking another. “We need something to look forward to in times like this,” she says.

  I shrug, leaning back in my chair. My eyes wander over to Katrielle’s side of the hut. Lysandra has stripped the bed and folded the blankets into a neat pile at the head of it. Her collection of books is still strewn beneath the bed.

  “You can take what you like,” Lysandra whispers.

  I look at her, incredulous, but she goes on.

  “Kat would have wanted you to have those books. Gods know how many hours you spent wound up in blankets like caterpillars in cocoons. Reading into the wee hours. Adreana must have a special love for you dears after all the time you spent awake at the wrong hour. Snoring through the day.” She laughs, catching her face in her hands and the laugh turns into a sob. Water lines my eyes.

  I push my chair out, and it scrapes along the wooden floorboards of the hut. I sit on the floor before her bed and reach into the collection of storybooks. Taking one out, I leaf to the page I know is stained with berry juice. We would eat and read. Eat and read. Dirty fingers pawing through the delicate pages before stuffing our faces once more.

  I snicker at Katrielle’s hand-written note on the cover of a book, The Pantheon of Aureum. She wrote the note when we were children. ‘Oran and Adreana are jealous of me and Keres.”

  I sift through the books we spent the most time with, making a short stack of the ones I would like to keep. Lysandra gives me wax-coated string to tie around them.

  “Oh!” Her hands flurry as she remembers something. I load my parcel of books onto the table and swallow the last bit of tea in my glass. Lysandra’s movements in the darkened back room of the hut intrigue me. She emerges holding something. She pulls open the drawstring pouch and slides a string of beads into her plump hands.

  “See, Kat told me this was to be your wedding gift.” She holds it up by the end of the string. Wedding gift? I never even thought to give her one.

  “The white bead is Mrithyn.” Her voice shakes. “Orange for Elymas. Oran, yellow, and Adreann
a, dark blue. Gold is Katrielle and Red is you,” Tears stream down her face.

  “The clear glass one is, let me think.” She pinches her eyes shut.

  I know she’s remembering Katrielle’s voice the night she detailed each bead to her mother. I can picture her excitement over her beautiful present for me.

  “The glass one is the future, the stone is the past. She got that from the river.” She smiles at me, tears slipping down her cheeks with the effort. “And this amber colored one, look at it, darling.”

  I take the beads in my hand to examine the amber bead. “It’s an ant.”

  I gape at the bug fossilized in the amber bead between my fingers.

  “The ant is the present time,” I say.

  She wipes her nose on her sleeve and nods. She holds up a finger, “That’s it. Those were her words.”

  I dangle the beads in front of my nose, staring at the little ant frozen in time.

  “Katrielle always told me to be strong.” I slip the beads back into the pouch. “Wherever you are, whatever you do, be like an ant. Be strong, no matter whether anyone notices. Mountains move one pebble at a time,” I recall.

  “That sounds like her,” Lysandra smiles. “Thank you for coming, Keres.”

  “Before I go,” I look at her toes. “Katrielle’s last words….”

  I need to make eye contact for this.

  “Go on, dear, I’m okay,” Lysandra lies.

  “Her last words were for my sister, Liriene. She died before she could finish telling me what she needed to say. Did she leave anything for my sister?”

  Lysandra sniffles and dabs at her eyes again. “No. I don’t believe so. They’d gotten into a fight the day before Katrielle left with the patrol group. I saw them arguing but I don’t know what it was about.”

  “Oh,” I say, not knowing what to make of it.

  “Katrielle was out of sorts that night. She wouldn’t eat her dinner; she was very upset. She even said was reconsidering the wedding.”

  “What?” I ask. She didn’t confide in me?