Sword of the Seven Sins

by Emily Colin

  My smile-that-is-not-a-smile widens. I know what I look like when I do this, have seen it in the mirror a time or two—not vanity, just standard practice for interrogators who need to be intimately familiar with every weapon at their disposal. I know, for instance, that when I widen my eyes and let one side of my mouth curve up in the grin that’s two parts promise and one part threat, most people—especially women, though some men as well—will tell me anything I want to know, reprisal be damned. I know my sense of humor can disarm or incite, depending on the interrogation subject and the matter at hand. And I know when I smile like this, people start screaming before I even lay a hand on them.

  Kilían doesn’t scream. He has seen the smile before, although never directed at him. And he is a warrior. Instead he fights to keep what little advantage remains to him. It’s admirable, but a pointless endeavor. With ruthless, unforgiving strikes, I propel him backward until he is cornered, the long length of his spine pressed against the wall by the door and the sharp point of my blade against his chest, above his heart. “Tell me about my parents,” I say again. “What happened to me? What do you mean?”

  He doesn’t struggle. His eyes meet mine, clear and unafraid. “Your parents were taken to safety. They fight with the Brotherhood now, have ever since they escaped. As for you, at first you were isolated, the way it always is with the natural-born, placed in the quarantined nursery. And then—you suffered some kind of crisis and disappeared. The medics supposedly brought you back again a few days later—but the Minder who’d been responsible for you since you were born...she swore they’d given her a different baby.”

  He is silent, letting his words sink in. When they do, my own eyes widen. “Are you saying they switched me with one of the regulation babies? That whoever this guy is, he’s been living out his existence as a natural-born, when there’s nothing wrong with him at all?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you either,” Kilían points out, calm as if I don’t have the point of a sverd pressed against his chest. “You’re still the same person you’ve always been.”

  I suppose I must be. How could it be otherwise? Still, what if I have struggled so much with illicit affection—the friendship, always rebuffed, I offered the other children in the Nursery, the wanting I feel for Eva—because of my flawed genetic code? What if I am broken, less worthy than the rest of my Bellatorum brothers?

  Sickened, I press my blade harder against Kilían’s bare chest. A bead of blood wells up, but he makes no sound. “Why would they do that?” I say. “What would they stand to gain?”

  “I don’t know. Presumably they took you away for testing, Ari. And whatever they found—well, it was significant enough to warrant the switch.”

  “How do you know all this?” The fight is over, and he is talking. With an effort, I suppress my bloodlust, take a step back, and let my blade fall. Kilían pushes off the wall, wiping idly at his chest. His hand comes away red.

  “Well,” he says, “you’re the very image of your father. So, there’s that. But as for how I know for sure—we had someone in the records department who confirmed it. Someone with the skill to manipulate the network.”

  “Had,” I echo. “You don’t have them anymore?”

  He shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “They disappeared shortly after they hacked into your profile. We assume they’ve been terminated.”

  That sick feeling twists in my stomach again. “Assume? You don’t know?”

  Kilían bends over his blade, inspecting it for damage. “They were taken from their post mid-shift. They never turned up in interrogation or anywhere else. We assumed the worst.” He straightens up, eyeing my face. “This is a lot to take in, Westergaard. Are you all right?”

  “Never better,” I tell Kilían, and give him the look the question deserves. “You’ve kept this from me for nineteen years. Why tell me now unless you want something from me?”

  From the way he sets his shoulders, as if bracing for battle, I know I’ve hit the mark. He turns away, long enough to return his borrowed sverd to its accustomed place on the wall, and I wait, using the hem of my shirt to wipe his blood from my blade. A cloud scuds across the moon, and when Kilían turns back to me, his face is in shadow. “You’re not wrong,” he says.

  I chuckle, the sound devoid of amusement. “Let me spare you the trouble. You want me to join this cursed Brotherhood of yours, and sign my death warrant along with it. Yeah?”

  He shrugs again, and I roll my eyes.

  “I may be impulsive, Kilían. But I’m not an idiot. Why in the nine hells would I do a thing like that?”

  “Are you satisfied, Ari?” he says in response, holding out his hand for my sverd. “Are you happy?”

  I pass it to him, tugging at my weapons belt so it hangs evenly from my hips once more. “What kind of virtueless questions are those?”

  “Important ones,” he says, “and the fact you don’t consider them so is indicative of your Commonwealth brainwashing. Happiness is important, Westergaard. As is personal fulfillment and the right to experience a full range of emotions without considering them to be evil or sinful. In the Brotherhood, we believe that.” He says it with reverence, as if this misguided little movement of his ought to be pronounced with a capital B.

  “You have lost your mind,” I tell him, even though the words coming out of his mouth bear an eerie resemblance to the ones I was thinking before—that I am sick of all the rules that govern us, tired of being told what to do. Those were just thoughts, albeit dangerous ones. This is different. “Assuming you’re telling the truth, a record-keeper was killed simply for looking at a profile he shouldn’t have. What do you think the Executor would do to someone who tried to bring the entire Commonwealth down?”

  Kilían doesn’t answer me. He doesn’t have to.

  Wearily, I run a hand through my sweaty hair. “Thank you for the information, Bellator Bryndísarson, and for the fencing bout. Both have been very instructive. But as for your generous offer, I fear I must decline.”

  I bow to him politely, as I have been trained, and turn to go. My head is spinning, taking the room with it. Inside I can feel my anger rising, getting closer and closer to the surface, threatening to break free. I want to be long gone from here when it does.

  “Wait,” Kilían says, and I feel his hand descend on my shoulder. It is too much, and I pivot, glaring.

  “Touch me again and forfeit a limb,” I spit at him.

  “Ease down, Westergaard,” he says. “I want to make you an offer.”

  “There’s nothing you’ve got that I want. Now let me go.”

  “What about your parents?” He cocks his head to the side, eyebrows raised.

  “What about them?” Wrath is a sin a sin a sin.

  Kilían’s hand falls from my shoulder. He takes one careful step backward, then another. “You want to see your parents, don’t you, Westergaard?”

  “What?”

  “Your parents. Work with me, and I’ll make sure you meet them. They want that, and I’m sure you do too—or you will, once you’ve had a chance to think this conversation over. Do what I ask, and I’ll make it happen.”

  All these years, feeling different, desperate for connection and ashamed. And now Kilían is offering me what I've always wanted—wanted so much, I even went looking for it with Eva, knowing the punishment was exile or death. I never thought any temptation would rival what I feel for her—but by the Sins, this comes close.

  I regard him, measuring the tilt of his head, the speed of his pulse, his stance. I know Kilían’s tells, have studied them for the past two years. He’s not exhibiting any now. “How do I know you’re not an Informer?”

  There is a beat of silence while he considers this. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  I laugh, the sound echoing in the empty room. “You’re a funny man, Kilían Bryndísarson. Say on.”

  He hands me a photograph. He tells me everything.

  17

  Eva

&nb
sp; All night long, I expect a knock on my door—Ari himself, or maybe Efraím, saying he knows what we did, he sees everything that happens in the Commonwealth and we will pay the price. I barely sleep. At breakfast the next morning, I am exhausted, sipping my tea without a word and ignoring Jakob Riis’s dirty looks by the simple expedient of focusing on my plate. This strategy serves a dual purpose: I can’t even glance in Ari’s direction, for fear of giving myself away. By contrast, Ari is his normal self, inquiring after Riis’s scratched cheek with a false air of concern, shoving the basket of toast in my direction before I have to ask, bantering with Karsten about the damage I did to his sword arm. Still, I know better than almost anyone how skilled he is at pretense and disguise.

  After assembly, I expect him to order me up to the training room and brace my sore muscles for combat. Instead, he catches Efraím outside and asks for the last thing I’d expect—permission to go down to the vineyards, on the premise of having me taste the varieties of ceremonial wine and learn how to better discern the intricacies of their flavor.

  “After yesterday, sir, I don’t think it’s sparring practice she needs,” he says, with a sarcastic smirk that—wonder of wonders—Efraím returns. “I’d like to work with her on honing her senses—the subtleties of battle. If I may?”

  Permission granted, Ari strides beside me, not bothering to slow his pace for mine. We’ve made it through Wunderstrand Square, past the dining hall and the garment factory, and are well on our way down the path to the vineyards before I find the courage to speak. “I’m sorry,” I say, pitching my voice low. “Last night—I shouldn’t have walked away. It was a coward’s retreat, and I owe you an apology.”

  He clears his throat, then glances down at me. “It’s all right, Eva. I’m not upset.”

  “Really?” I say in disbelief. “Because yesterday, you seemed—”

  “I was upset yesterday,” he says, cutting me off. “More than upset. But let’s just say I got it out of my system.”

  We cut past a group of white-clad children harvesting grapes, tugging them free of the vines along the arbors and dropping them into buckets. They fall silent at the sight of us, and I remember what it was like to be their age—how intimidating the bellators always seemed, like a separate, predatory species. Now here I am, one of them.

  The moment the children are out of earshot, Ari turns to me. “Eva. I have to talk to you.”

  My heart picks up speed, tapping out an uneven rhythm. “We said everything last night. What else is there to talk about?”

  He steps onto the rocky path that leads to the most secluded tasting room, far away from the vineyards themselves. “Plenty,” he says over his shoulder. “But not here.”

  We don’t speak again until he pushes open the door to the tasting room, holding it so I can step inside. The room is deserted, except for the barrels of wine that line the walls, the rack of glasses on the counter, and two chairs. Sunlight filters through the windows, illuminating the dust particles that drift in the air, coming to rest on the polished wood floor.

  The door swings shut behind us, the latch settling into place with a click. I turn to face Ari, but he isn’t looking at me. Instead he has crossed to one of the barrels and is holding a glass underneath the spigot. He fills it and tilts it back, lifting it to his lips. The long muscles of his throat move as he swallows, and I have to admonish myself not to stare.

  “Ah,” he says after a long moment. “Now, you.” Pulling a second glass from the rack on the counter, he fills it and hands it to me, careful not to let our fingers touch.

  “Why are we really here?” I ask him, and I’m rewarded with an inscrutable smile.

  18

  Ari

  I made up my mind to tell Eva about the Brotherhood and the circumstances of my birth as soon as I left the training room last night. We already share one dangerous secret; why not another? Besides, whatever strange dynamic has sprung up between us—whatever we might or might not become—I trust her the way I trust few others. She doubted the aims of the Commonwealth before I ever did. If anyone will understand, it’s her.

  I stayed up until the bell rang for the Oath this morning, thinking about the rest of what Kilían told me—how my parents escaped through a system of tunnels that run beneath the Commonwealth, branching out from the underground passageways containing the prison cells and the interrogation chamber. Kilían brought a photog of my parents as proof—a gift from the leader of the Brotherhood camp—and extended it to me like the rare treasure it was: the two of them together, arms around each other as if touching were the most natural thing in the world.

  I stared down at the little square in my hand, evidence Kilían was telling the truth. My father’s green eyes matched my own, but the arch of my brows and the sweep of my cheekbones seemed lifted from my mother’s face. I had my father’s fall of dark hair and my mother’s olive skin.

  Kilían reclaimed the photog and showed me a handshake to prove I hailed from the Brotherhood—fingers curled against his palm as his index finger hooked over my own.

  “Speak of the wolf, and he will come,” he whispered. And taught me how to reply in kind: “So it shall be, Kilían Bryndísarson. A wolf will not bite a wolf.”

  I stood, silent and still, as Kilían described the entrance to the tunnels that led out of the City—behind an underground passageway dead-ending in a room filled with dusty tomes, maintained by one of the Commonwealth’s most respected scholars…and a member of the Brotherhood. If I could talk my way past the scholar, if I could make it to the Outside, I would have accomplished half the battle. The rest would lie in discovering the location of the Brotherhood camp and convincing their leader I was worthy of his trust. And then I would have to decide what to do, where my loyalties stand.

  “Let justice be done, even should the world perish,” Kilían said at last, voice hoarse from talking.

  I took his extended hand, sealing our bargain with the words he’d taught me. “Let justice be done, even should the sky fall.” And I walked away, back to my narrow cot and my narrow life, where I lay sleepless until dawn broke over the horizon and I rose, a loyal bellator once more.

  The weight of this knowledge is crushing. But it could also set me—us—free.

  Eva and I are alone in the tasting room, with no one closer than the vineyards to hear. If I am going to tell her, this is the best chance I’ll have.

  I wait for her to take the first sip. And then I speak.

  19

  Eva

  “Well?” Ari says, his eyes flickering from my face to the half-empty wineglass in his left hand. “Say something.”

  I lean back against the wall, willing my body not to shake. I’m not sure which topic is more dangerous—this supposed Brotherhood to which Kilían wants to recruit Ari, or the claim he is natural-born. We’ve been brought up to think of natural-born children as less than worthy, the product of unholy lust. Most languish in menial jobs, stigmatized by their beginnings. They’re told who they are from the start, raised with stricter punishments by the Mothers, watched carefully for aberrations, lest they join their parents on the executioner’s block or in exile. Their genetic material is flawed, prone to sin and thus excluded from the procreation requirements we are all subject to, one year after the Choosing.

  I seize on this, picking one question off the top of multitudes. “Well, to play the Devil’s advocate—if you’re natural-born, wouldn’t they exclude you from the procreation offerings on Donation Day?”

  Ari eyes me with disbelief. “Everything I’ve told you, and that’s what you choose to focus on?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  He shifts from one foot to the other, shrugging, and doesn’t say a word.

  “Well?” I press. “They haven’t, have they?”

  A slow blush heats Ari’s cheeks, the first time I’ve ever seen him look embarrassed. “No,” he says shortly. “They haven’t.”

  “I don’t understand. What would be the poin
t, if this is really who you are?”

  “How do I know?” he snaps, turning away. “Maybe they plan to throw my samples out, Eva. Or use them to study my defective genetics. Or maybe it’s a shell game, something to cover up who I really am—since obviously they never intended for me to find out.”

  “When you went in to fulfill your requirement,” I say without thinking, “did you ever notice anything strange in the way they dealt with you? Anything different than the other petitioners?”

  Ari sets his glass down on the counter with a thump. His head is bent to hide his face, but I can see a dark flush creeping up the back of his neck nonetheless. “That day,” he says, his voice sounding strangled, “you’re not thinking about anything but why you’re there—what they’re sending you into a little room to do.”

  His voice breaks on the last word, and I feel color begin to heat my own cheeks. Donation Day is one of the few mysteries of the Commonwealth, the subject of endless forbidden speculation. We’re not allowed to talk about it amongst ourselves, much less ask the participants to describe their experience. Such curiosity would lead to inappropriate discussions, which might in turn lead to the commission of sin. Better to remove temptation from our paths whenever possible—except here I am, courting it, despite my determination to do otherwise. Why is it when it comes to me and Ari, nothing goes the way it should?

  He takes pity on both of us, rocking back on his heels and picking up the glass again. He swallows half of its remaining contents before he speaks. “No one has ever treated me any differently on Donation Day, Eva. But how in all the nine circles of hell would I know what they did with my sample after I put it into that cubby in the wall? If they had something to hide, they’d hide it, wouldn’t they? Not flaunt it in my face so I’d get suspicious.”