Sword of the Seven Sins

by Emily Colin

  Efraím nods. “A quick study as always, Bellator Westergaard,” he says with the barest hint of sarcasm. Sometimes I wonder if Efraím even likes me. Other times, I’m sure he doesn’t. But what does it matter? I do my duty, always. Affection doesn’t enter into the equation. As a child, shunned and punished for my repeated attempts to show preference for one Nursery-mate or another, I learned that lesson the hard way.

  “It would be my honor, sir.” I feel that familiar grin threatening to break through—the one that’s gotten me in so much trouble over the years—and do my best to suppress it. But before I get very far, Efraím holds up a hand in protest.

  “Go ahead and smirk, for all the good it will do. You’ve not yet had the experience of dragging a recruit from his bed; they may be easily subdued, but they don’t come quietly. We’ll see how long that smile lasts tonight, when you have a thrashing she-devil to contend with.”

  The grin fades from my face. “Come again, sir? I don’t understand.”

  “Did I stutter, Westergaard?” He hurls the words at me, each syllable a javelin.

  “No, sir,” I say, careful to keep my tone as empty as my expression.

  He braces one shoulder against the doorway, watching me. Assessing.

  “So the new recruit,” I say, one hand on my weapons belt in case defensive action is called for, “it’s a female? But…why?”

  Efraím makes a noise low in his throat, and then a metallic object is flying through the air. I duck and it misses me, embedding in the wall behind where my head used to be. I crouch, wary, blade in hand, but all he does is glare. “Does your opinion matter, Bellator Westergaard?”

  Eyeing him, I straighten. “No, sir.”

  “These are our orders, and so we will fulfill them. It’s not our job to question the will of the Executor. We are warriors, not intellectuals or politicians. He says the girl is to be recruited, and so she will be. Most likely she’ll be more a kitten than a she-devil if she’s taken the sedative like the rest of them; regardless, we’ll do our duty without inquiry or complaint. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No, sir,” I say, doing my utmost to sound humble. “It would be my privilege. Thank you for your clarity.”

  He stalks past me and yanks the knife out of the wall, leaving a hole the natural-born will have to patch. Then he backs away, keeping me in his sights until he clears the doorway. “Take care of that, will you?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, even though his order means requisitions and paperwork, the things I hate the most. He looks me over for insincerity, but he won’t find any tonight. I straighten and stand at attention, hands at my sides. My face is blank, revealing nothing, my heartbeat studiously slow. I am the perfect bellator, everything Efraím has trained me to be.

  He nods, satisfied, and steps into the hallway. “Good enough.”

  “Sir?” I say, before I lose my nerve.

  Efraím turns back, exasperated. “What is it now, Westergaard?”

  “The female recruit. The girl. What’s her name?”

  He looks at me as if he’s never seen me before. “Why does that matter?”

  “It doesn’t, I suppose, sir,” I say.

  Except it does, because I am suddenly convinced I know exactly who she is.

  I stare at Efraím, and he stares back. The seconds spiral down three-two-one, like the aperture of a vid camera closing, and still he doesn’t speak. I don’t drop my eyes in deference, like I probably should. This is a battle of wills I cannot afford to lose.

  Finally he clears his throat. “You’re a stubborn son-of-a-bitch, Westergaard,” he says with grudging respect. “Meet me here at one o’clock, and you’ll have your answer.”

  He spins on his heel and is gone.

  4

  Eva

  The hours in the comp lab drag, even though they are usually my favorite part of the day. After work, I eat dinner with three other girls from the Rookery, but we are too nervous about tomorrow’s Choosing to say much. Freed from conversation, I glance around the dining hall—and feel my heart stutter. Is it my imagination, or has each detail sprung into sharper relief—a smudge on the white wall by the door, a scratch on the pine floor, a missed stitch in the hem of Thordis Risberg’s white pants? The blinds are open, and through them I see the mountains, each peak and valley as clearly delineated as if I were staring at them on a vid screen. Surely they do not always look like this.

  Maybe I’m getting ill. Perhaps this is the precursor to a fever, or pre-Choosing nerves. Either way, I have no time to indulge in it. I turn back to my companions, forcing a smile. We walk back through Clockverk Square in silence, perform our nightly rituals, and climb into our respective beds.

  Once we are settled, Mother Northrup pulls a straight-backed wooden chair into the center of the room. Logs crackle in the big brick fireplace behind her. Above it hangs a painting of a kneeling man, a red-robed Priest behind him, whip in hand.

  “Tonight,” she says without preamble, “the last night of your childhood—the last before your Choosing—I will read you the cautionary tale of Lachlan and the Selkie one final time.”

  I have heard this story on more occasions than I can remember, and would be happy to never listen to it again. Having no choice, I set my face with rapt attention and fix my eyes on the Mother.

  Mother Northrup’s dress is the color of the forest’s fir trees at sunset, growing darker in the fading light. Shadows hide in the fabric’s folds, spreading outward into the room. And things hide in the shadows.

  A shiver runs through me at the sight, and I fight the longstanding urge to bite down on the end of my braid—not a sin, but a bad habit nonetheless. I’ve had these visions since childhood, imaginings of creatures that lurk in the half-light and voices that mutter in a language I can’t understand—but they’ve been getting worse lately, as if the closer I get to the Choosing, something within me is shifting, changing.

  I look away, but that doesn’t help. On the bare white wall behind Mother Northrup, the shadows of the flames leap and dance. From inside them something stares at me—something with teeth—

  The Mother lifts a familiar leather-bound book from the floor and cracks it open. A nasty, underground smell drifts from its pages. “Long ago,” she begins, oblivious to the shadow-beasts looming on the wall behind her, their claws sunk deep into the Priest’s painted red robes, “after the Fall, spread far across the lands of the Empire, there came to be four great Houses: Montyorke, San Fraesco, Minneska, and Satrizona. Each had its own kingdom and its own spirit animal made flesh: Montyorke the avaricious falcon and San Fraesco the seductive selkie, Minneska the prideful wolf and Satrizona the panther, dark as night and twice as treacherous. They lived as royalty, vacillating between their human skins and the pull of teeth and wings and talons, surrendering to their animal natures as they would.”

  The shapeshifter bit is just a fable, of course—but the four Houses did exist, coming to power after the Fall when the world was in chaos. Every citizen learns about the Houses in history class. There’s San Fraesco, built by an ocean at the Empire’s western edge, in a city of hills named for a forgotten saint—a place where earthquakes shook the ground as punishment for one’s sins and a bridge built of gold arched over a frothing bay; Minneska, a northern land of forests and deep blue pools, so cold that your breath froze and fell to the ground as icicles, where twin cities grew alongside each other long ago; Montyorke, an island once home to millions, grounded in gluttony and seeded with the corpses of half-sunk buildings the height of a thousand men; and Satrizona, sprung from a western desert land carved from rocks, so red that in the light of sunset, it looked as if they were painted with blood.

  The Houses weren’t ruled by animals, naturally—but they might as well have been. The royals that led them were prideful pleasure-seekers who considered only their own comfort, leading lives even more sinful than those of the people before the Fall. They thought only of themselves, leaving the villagers and Priests to suffe
r.

  The villagers and Priests banded together to lead an uprising. They fought the royals, who had banded together with the barbarians from the south. It was a bloody battle, a war that spanned land and sea. When the fight was over, the royals lay dead. All was chaos—but the Priests led the surviving citizens to safety, founding the Commonwealths and keeping citizens safe from sin.

  Between the Commonwealths lie the Borderlands, unknown places where exiles drift, mutant creatures prowl, and the Outsiders, descendants of the barbarian warriors, still roam in hordes, looking for a way inside our gates. I imagine the Borderlands as a vast wasteland, filled with monsters like the shadows on the wall surrounding each Commonwealth, lurking and waiting to pounce.

  Mother Northrup leans forward, the book balanced on one hand. Her eyes gleam in the firelight—flat disks one moment, deep pools the next. “The shapeshifters of each House were the skúmaskot, named for the dark corners in which shadows lurked. Though they were sworn to defend their Houses against harm, when the frenzy of the change was on them they thought only of indulging their basest impulses. Beneath the moon they fornicated, gorging themselves on wine and sweetmeats while the people of their villages sickened and starved.”

  Around me, the other girls suck in their breath, horrified. Lust and gluttony, pride and sloth—four of the seven deadly sins. How odd, I think, as I have since childhood, that they should fear such things, and not the shadow-creatures that dance on the wall. How odd that I am the only one who can see the creatures, whose imagination does not obey the dictates of the Mothers and the Priests. It is a secret I have kept for as long as I can remember.

  “The selkies were the most egregious sinners. Seals, they were, living in the cold waters that lapped San Fraesco’s rocky shores. At will, they came onto the beaches and left their pelts behind, swimming in their human form. The man who lay with such a creature had to choose—go with her into the sea and abandon all he knew, or steal her skin and lock it away. For without her pelt, a selkie can never return to the deep.” Mother Northrup’s voice is filled with a strange satisfaction, and when I risk a glance to my left and right, I see the same expression on each of my Rookery-mates’ faces. Surely there must be something wrong with me—for I feel only sadness for such a wild creature to be robbed of its very skin.

  The Mother turns the page. “All in San Fraesco knew better than to approach a selkie when it emerged naked and shining from the sea. But one brave man, Lachlan, had a young daughter, Margret, whom he cherished above all things. Each day, Lachlan watched as Margret grew weak for want of food. It had been a hard winter, the ground iced with the frosts of the North and the ocean reluctant to relinquish its bounty. The snares the hunters set yielded little, and the cold nipped at the barley in the fields til it withered and died on the vine.

  “The selkies ignored the villagers’ suffering, wallowing instead in greed and pleasures of the flesh. All feared to approach them—save one. Lachlan raged against the skúmaskot, so filled with wrath his stone cottage shook with the force of his bellowing. Though his wife, Anna, begged him to stay, he made his way to the shore on the night of the full moon. There he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted into the wind, daring the skúmaskot to show themselves.

  “From the depths, in response to his call, came the selkie Iris. On the rocks of the shore she stood, hair streaming down her back like fronds of seaweed. Bitter cold, it was, so that Lachlan could scarce feel the tips of his fingers, and his breath rattled in his lungs—but the bite of the wind and the rimy spray of the sea affected Iris not. ‘Speak, man,’ she said, and hers was the voice of the sharp-toothed deep.

  “Lachlan did as she bid. ‘My daughter, Margret, is near death. She is a lovely girl, and the child of my heart. All in the village are desperate for food, and our efforts in the fields and sea have come to naught. How dare you frolic in the waters while we are starving in our homes?’

  “In desperation he lunged for her sealskin where it lay upon the rocks. ‘Do as I ask,’ he commanded, ‘or I shall take this as my own, and you shall pay the price of its loss.’

  “‘If you do,’ the selkie replied, ‘who will feed your precious daughter? For I cannot hunt for you, should you lock away my pelt.’

  “Lachlan knew this to be the truth, and hopelessness swallowed his heart. ‘If you will not help me, then you are indeed a soulless beast,’ he said, and pulled his skinning knife from his belt, prepared to hack the pelt to bits.”

  Wind rattles the windows, and the flames cast ever-taller shadows on the wall. I sink my teeth into my lip and bargain with myself: If I don’t look for ten seconds, they’ll be gone. If I don’t look for fifteen, they’ll never come back.

  “In her cunning, Iris offered Lachlan a bargain: One night with her, in exchange for a winter’s food supply for his family. Despite the vows he had made his wife and all he knew about selkies’ wily nature, Lachlan agreed. He spent the night diving with the selkie in the waves, as impervious to the cold as she, taking pleasure in her body once more and again.” The Mother’s voice is stiff, filled with discomfort at the necessity of discussing such things.

  “When the sun crept over the horizon, Lachlan lay naked on the rocks, a reed-woven basket of salmon by his side. Exhausted, he staggered to his feet, dressed, and made his way home. He envisioned the smile that would light Margret’s thin face when he came through the door, how Anna would roast the salmon with the cords of garlic that hung above the hearth and they would feast together, licking their fingers clean.”

  Gluttony, I think. If you are starving, is it still a sin?

  “But as he came up the path to his house, he saw that all inside was dark. When he pushed the door open, the fire was a dead thing, burnt to ashes inside the hearth. The air hung heavy with the tang of salt and iron.

  “Lachlan rushed from room to room, calling his wife’s and daughter’s names. He found them at last in Margret’s bed, arms wrapped around each other, his daughter cold and his wife’s wrists slit, the sheet beneath them soaked with blood. For Margret had gone to join the many-headed gods in the early hours of the night, and Anna, seeking to tell her husband of their daughter’s death, instead found him engaged in sin. Faced with the loss of all she loved, she went to their cottage, lay down beside Margret, and took her own life.”

  The many-headed gods—a primitive fantasy, nothing like the clear dictates of the Architect and the Priests. Still, though I have no real idea what is meant by the words ‘wife’ and ‘daughter,’ I can’t help but imagine the woman and child twined in each other’s arms, cold and bathed in blood.

  “Lachlan wanted only to follow his family into death—but the selkie had bound him with her magic, making him her human familiar. His soul was tied to hers, so that he was drawn again and again to the rocky shore, compelled to do her bidding. Her word was edged as a double-sided blade: Each night of that long winter, Lachlan opened his door to find a basket of fresh-caught fish on his doorstep. At last he had all he needed to feed his family—but his family was no more, and his neighbors, believing him cursed, would have no part of his bounty. By the spring, many of them had perished of starvation, and he was alone.”

  The shadows dip and sweep and bite, their jaws closing on nothingness. Justice, I think, fingers twitching with the desire to reach for my braid, can be a cold and empty thing.

  Mother Northup snaps the book closed and drags the chair back to its accustomed place in the corner. “And now,” she says, banking the fire, “goodnight.”

  Mother Truelson emerges from where she’s been listening by the doorway, balancing a tray on each palm. She hands one to Mother Northrup, and the two come around with tiny white pills and cups of water. They pause by each cot. I can hear them murmuring to the girls, their voices soothing. My bed is in the corner by the window, and it takes a while for Mother Northrup to reach me. I close my eyes, feigning tiredness, until I hear her footsteps, soft on the wooden floor.

  “Citizen Marteinn,” she says, an
d I blink, scooting to a sitting position.

  “Good evening, Mother Northrup,” I reply.

  She holds out the pills and the water. “These are for you.”

  “Forgive my curiosity,” I say, “but what are they?”

  Mother Northrup smiles, a curve of her pale lips that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just a little something to help you rest. We know how excited you girls must be on Choosing Eve. Why, I remember my own Choosing like it was yesterday. I wouldn’t have slept a wink if I hadn’t had a little help. And it’s very important you be well-rested, of course.”

  “Of course,” I say. “Thank you for your consideration.”

  She stands by the bed and watches as I toss the pill into my mouth, take a gulp of the water, and swallow. And then she gives me an approving smile and moves on to the next cot. I hear her talking to Valentína, and take advantage of her distraction to turn my face toward the wall as if seeking sleep. I open my mouth, lift my tongue, and spit the pill onto the sheet, quickly covering it with the pillow. After lights out, I will crush it to bits.

  I’ve never refused a Commonwealth dictate. If I am caught, there will be serious consequences. But on this night, the last before the path of my life is defined, I want a clear head. I’ve taken these pills before, know how they leave you with muddied thoughts and the sense the world is wrapped in cotton batting. I’d rather not meet my Choosing that way. If sleep eludes me, so be it.

  I watch as the rest of the girls obediently take their pills and model my body language after theirs—deep sighs, blinks, and a sudden settling, their bodies sinking into the mattress, chasing sleep. Through a tiny gap in my eyelids, I see Mother Northrup standing with her hand on the light switch, surveying us. “Lights out,” she announces, and the room fades into darkness. She leaves, closing the door behind her. I hear her footsteps retreat down the hallway, toward the room she shares with Mother Truelson at the other end, near the stairs.