The Indivisible and the Void

by D M Wozniak

  His eyes narrow, just slightly. Others don’t usually ask him such pointed questions.

  “No, Dem. You are my war horse.”

  I break eye contact with him and face downward, stabbing my food with my fork. My reaction is borderline offensive, but it’s better than a snide reply.

  The king refers to his exploitation of the voiders.

  It’s hard to believe that for four years, ever since the war started, all of my graduating students from the university have been recruited for his new dark purpose. This isn’t the way it used to be. Voiders have always been a service to the people. Upon graduation, I used to assign each student a destination—from the Second Ring here in the citadel to the furthest reaches of the Northern Kingdom. Their duties were to assimilate, aid their appointed village with their struggles, help cure their sick, educate the unenlightened, and in general, make life better for the scores of people born into commonality.

  The new king found a darker use for them.

  “I need more voiders, Dem.”

  I look back up at the young ruler as I swallow.

  “My commanders say that your students provide significant help to the cause. They’re a weapon that we’re lucky to have. The southerners have them too, mark my word. But the Xian are not as organized or well-trained.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, your majesty.”

  “Which is why I need to ask you for more,” he says pointedly.

  I hesitate before responding. “More?”

  “With more voiders we can end this war,” he says, as though I am daft.

  “Your majesty, I do not have the power to create voiders out of commoners. One has to have the gift.”

  He waves me off while tapping his glass again.

  “We already test every child in the citadel,” I say. “We do routine visits in the countryside, catching those we may have missed.”

  “Obviously, we must double up those efforts,” he says. “There are likely voiders out there that we have not yet identified.”

  “But the issue of the stones remains.”

  He grunts and leans back, his excitement deflated by the truth of my words.

  “There are only so many voidstones in existence, your majesty. We confiscate the stones of all voiders who die. They’re handed down to new recruits. I have a handful locked up in my lab. But there has always been a stasis. An odd balance. We’ve always had all that we have ever needed.”

  “Well, now we need more.”

  “Have your commanders been successful in capturing enemy voiders?” I ask.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “It is the best way to gain more stones. If we confiscate a Xian stone, we weaken their force and strengthen ours.”

  He purses his lips. “That is a good thought, but the southerners protect their voiders as we do ours. Always behind enemy lines and hidden in their ranks. We need to think of other means.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “We continue to excavate them, now and then. Farmers uncover them in their fields every generation.”

  “Ah, but those are rare,” the king insists. “And their sizes are getting gradually smaller. The largest ones have already been found, I’m told.”

  “That is true.”

  For a brief moment, there is silence between us. The only sound is the violin.

  “What if we found a stone larger than you can imagine?” he asks. “More powerful than any stone in our possession—what would you say then?”

  I look at him, confused at the question. His cheeks are flushed. He’s seems already drunk—he probably had a bottle of wine even before coming into this dining room, and he’s almost had another, here with me. “If we had larger voidstones,” I answer levelly, “you wouldn’t need more voiders. The ones you already have would be significantly more powerful.”

  “They’d be like gods, wouldn’t they?”

  The king is not looking at me anymore. He’s staring at the candelabra, the flames reflecting in his eyes. Meanwhile, the violinist, who had been playing softly all of this time, ends his song, and the room is suddenly filled with an eerie stillness.

  “They need to graduate faster,” he eventually adds.

  I set my fork down on the plate with an audible clink. “If you rush my students, they will not be ready.”

  “I will be the judge of that.”

  “Your majesty, the risk of voideath would be significant. Especially confronted with the horrors of war, they may not know when to disengage—”

  He pounds his fist on the table and the plates jump in place. “I told you I will be the judge of that!”

  In the corner of the room, the violinist appears ready to play again, but the king’s outburst has him thinking twice. His arm that holds the bow upright is quivering.

  “Your majesty, it is my responsibility to always tell you the truth, even when it is in neither of our best interests. If the voiders are a special weapon in the war—you risk rendering this weapon unstable by producing it too quickly.”

  I can sense that he’s not fully listening—he’s staring into the candlelight again.

  Turning to me, King Andrej X’s face is made of stone. “I’m beginning to wonder if I need to find myself another master voider.”

  His reply has caught me in mid-sip of my wine, which buys me a precious moment to think upon an answer. Meanwhile, the only sound in the room is the ticking clock on the buffet.

  I do not have a choice. The king is right about one thing—I exist to do his bidding. If I refuse his demands, he would have me hanged, and replaced by another voider who would be a puppet and quickly ruin the university. If it were his father sitting before me tonight, I could talk him out of it. But then again, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. This is Andrej X’s war, not his father’s.

  How quickly things have changed.

  “When do you need them ready, your majesty?”

  “Wintertide,” he answers immediately. It’s apparent that he has already thought long and hard about this.

  That’s six months from now.

  What must be done will be done. Studies will be doubled. Holidays and retreats will be canceled. I will move my few teachers and their families into the Royal House to cut down on their travel time. We will need to be preparing these young men and women around the clock for this to work.

  But the deal! I need to ensure it is still intact.

  “Your majesty, we will celebrate another graduation in wintertide. All I ask in return is that you continue to honor your commitment to the one student exception.”

  His stone face returns, as he was probably not expecting a negotiation. Any bystander might even confuse his expression with confusion, but I can tell that he understands what I am talking about.

  The one student exception is very clear: For every graduating class, one student of mine is spared from enlistment. Instead, he or she is sent out into the countryside, like the way things used to be. And I get to pick who the student is, and where they go.

  The only sounds are the ticking clock and shuffling of servants. I lean back as my plate is taken away, and then notice a dark smile upon the king’s face when I turn back to him. He begins chuckling silently.

  “My father was so right about you.”

  I wait for him to clarify.

  “He loved you dearly, but he said you had your weaknesses too. Most people do, I imagine.”

  “Your father was a brilliant leader and mentor,” I answer truthfully. “I will take any criticism he says to heart.”

  “He said that you were idealistic, Dem. A perfectionist. You don’t bend, you break. I think those were his words. But you are also honest. My father said that it was very difficult to get an honest opinion in this court, and I find it just the same. Everyone around me wants to tell me only what I want to hear. They all suck my cock with their pleasant answers. You don’t, and I admire that.”

  His harsh language takes me by surprise. “Thank you, your majesty.”

&n
bsp; “But there’s another side to that coin. You of all people should know that. Look at that young, hot wife of yours. That little nymph, now she’s slipped away.”

  The memory of what Marine did stabs me anew, but there is nothing I can say in reply. He downs another glass of wine, and I can easily see now that he’s drunk. “There are some things I can never tell you,” he continues. “I’d like to, but I know you’d disagree, and you’d be too proud to fall in line. I don’t want to break you, Dem. So I keep you safe, instead. My trustful war horse.”

  I wonder what he could be referring to, but based on his current temperament, I know better than to ask.

  Soon, we’re onto dessert, and finally anise liqueur and water pipe. The subject keeps returning back to Marine, but I don’t go into any details about her unfaithfulness or the veiled figure. Nor do I tell him about the black pitch. I don’t even tell him that I had spent the last four fullbells leading up to dinner madly scouring the riverbank for missing ships, only to come up empty-handed. I’m barely sober enough that my intuition stays focused on the reflection on the dining table.

  I don’t trust what’s underneath that sheen.

  By tenbell, the table is cleared and all of the servants have left the room, only to be replaced by his harem, five women barely clothed in transparent silk. The king insists I take one of them back with me tonight. I initially refuse, but he proclaims that it is not my place to deny his overflowing generosity.

  “It’s our secret, Dem,” he says, slurring his words. “Don’t tell the donkey.”

  A few of the women resemble Marine. Their blonde hair and blue eyes are a painful reminder. But one audaciously steps forward. An olive-skinned girl with thick, black hair in bangs, wider hips, and far-set eyes—clearly from the archipelago. Again I refuse, but she nor the king will take no for an answer. Thus is the pattern of the night.

  I tell her to retrieve her cloak, and then we both stumble out into the darkness.

  A Walk in the Moonlight

  The girl from the archipelago snakes her arm into mine as we leave the king’s residence and walk down the long, circular drive to the public street beyond.

  “You look like a gentleman,” she says, her smooth, olive-skinned face upturned cautiously in the moonlight.

  “That’s because I am one,” I answer, taken aback by the odd statement, which almost sounded like a question. “What is your name?”

  “Chimeline, your grace,” she answers.

  “You’re from Scorpiontail,” I say.

  She nods. “How did you know?”

  “I’m familiar with the exotic features of archipelagian women. I’ve been there many times. Your dark hair and almond-shaped eyes are a dead giveaway.”

  “And our beauty too?” she asks playfully, but I am in no mood for games. I simply nod, and she smiles, tightening her grip on my arm.

  “It’s unfortunate that the chain of islands looks like a poisoned tail on a map,” I continue. “I never liked the term of your homeland. The people there, from my accounts, were always welcoming.”

  “Thank you, your grace.”

  “What does it mean? Your name.”

  Suddenly she is quiet, not answering me until we approach the street. It’s brighter here—the evergreens and hedgerows of the king’s front gardens falling away and glass-covered lamplights taking their place. They’ve all been lit, and the full moon reflects off of the damp street. A handful of workers are watering down the cobblestones to get rid of the stench of horse shit. They all look at us, and I am thankful that Chimeline is wearing a black robe to hide her nakedness underneath. Everyone here knows who I am, and I don’t need additional rumors over what’s already been spread. Master Voider Democryos walking a female companion home—that is nothing too out of the ordinary.

  “A father’s pride,” she says, flatly.

  As we walk together, arm in arm, I look sideways at her. Her bangs cover her eyebrows. Her robe is parted slightly in a V, revealing her delicate neckline and soft curves hinting at what’s below. She must have applied some sort of makeup before we left, as her full lips reflect the same wet moonlight as the street. She is exotic, and part of me wants to take advantage of the king’s offer, but I cannot. It makes me just like him. The veiled man.

  Besides, I am a little drunk, and exhausted after my grueling search in the sun. Even if it weren’t morally reprehensible, I am not sure I would be willing to share my bed with this woman tonight. I am in no mood. I only want to remove these formal clothes and fall into my downy bed, to get a good night’s rest before a fresh day of searching tomorrow. There are a handful of harbors I have not checked yet.

  Marine, I have not given up on you yet.

  But then the king’s hideous words come back to me. With a rough slap on my back, he uttered them as we left, moments ago. “Go and fuck the memory of Marine right out of you, Dem. I need you to concentrate on the war.”

  What a complete ass of a ruler.

  I stop in place, exhaling into the night.

  What am I doing with this girl?

  Chimeline has intuition. She senses my welling hatred and reluctance, and steps in front of me. She gently pulls upon the belt of her robe and it parts subtly in the night breeze, just enough to reveal her pristine body to me in the moonlight. I look over her shoulder at the workers down the street, concerned with her public display, but they are busy at work. Her movements are purposely subtle. She knows there is a line here that cannot be crossed.

  She looks up at me with dark, brown eyes, and the scent of oranges and sugar waft over me.

  “Take me to your bedchamber, your grace.”

  “Chimeline,” I say. I am about to say more, but then she subtly takes one of her small hands and weaves it underneath my flaxen cloak, and any words that were on my tongue escape me.

  “I can help you forget her,” she whispers.

  “No, you can’t,” I answer, even as my body is saying something else, so I gently push her away.

  “I will walk you home,” I add.

  The look on Chimeline’s face is one of disappointing concern. She only has simple goals. She was given a job to do: to take away my pain. And I can tell that she wants to do it with all of her heart.

  “If you don’t take me home with you, I will be disgraced.”

  That’s when an odd understanding comes over me. This girl and I have more in common than I originally thought. We are both vilified by parts of society. And we are both being used.

  Chimeline’s power is her sexuality. She was born with the gift of beauty. It cannot be earned with money, hard work, or one’s birth right.

  My power depends on my ability to use a voidstone. Like all voiders, I was born with the gift. It, too, cannot be earned. While it has been proven that the sons and daughters of voiders show an inclination for the gift, it’s not guaranteed. Voiders have been found in every spectrum of society—from daughters of wealthy land owners to sons of wainwrights.

  We are who we are. We didn’t ask for this.

  And the king is using us both.

  “Come on,” I say. “I’m not going to disgrace you.”

  I wrap her back up in her black robe and tie the belt securely. Then I put my arm around her, as we slowly stumble down the recently washed road, toward the Royal House where I reside. It is hidden around the bend in the near distance. I am not about to send this girl back home in tatters. Let the king think his puppet strings are all intact.

  We stand at the top-most part of the citadel, where everything is tightly-packed upon a single hilltop. Streets follow curves as dramatic as those of Chimeline’s body, and we take many steps down, leaning against stone walls to regain our balance. Even sober, this is no easy stroll.

  Soon, the Royal House towers above us, behind slender pear trees. But Chimeline instead admires the view across the narrow street.

  Past the stone wall, which is only waist-high, a sheer cliff drops away, covered in flowering vines and rough brush. A hundr
ed king’s feet below, the road snakes past us again, and then a third time, after that. But that’s not what Chimeline is looking at.

  Out in the midnight-blue distance lay the Northern Kingdom, bathed in moonlight.

  Block upon block, house upon house, the clay rooftops of the citadel fade to mist. Orange lamplight glows from tiny windows amidst the cobwebbed streets. Slim smokestacks reach for the clouds, but nothing comes out of them on this warm night. Faraway, I barely see the spire of the effulgency temple against the imposing First Ring, and then the patches of dark countryside beyond.

  “You can do anything you want to me, your grace,” she says. “All I ask is that you are a gentleman. Be gentle with me.”

  Now her prior gentleman comment makes sense. Chimeline has apparently been through some rough experiences as one of the king’s harem.

  She cautiously puts a hand underneath my flaxen cloak again, not wanting the same reaction as before. This time, she lightly traces her fingertips across my chest.

  Now I fear that her path in life wasn’t chosen by her, after all. As we look out upon this pristine civilization built of stone, clay, and iron, darker undercurrents cross my mind. How she got here is a mystery, and suddenly I want to speak to her about it. She could have been sold into slavery as a young child. Or perhaps her parents are aging and poor, back in the archipelago, and moving north to sell her body was the only way to provide for them.

  “Have other men hurt you?” I ask. “If so, I will tell the king myself.”

  Her eyes open wide. “Please do not, your grace. I would be chastised for even bringing my lowly concerns to your attention.”

  “Tell me then,” I say. “I won’t tell the king.”

  She turns her head back to the moon, and whispers, “It was only one man. A voider, like yourself.”

  A voider, like yourself.

  I grasp her shoulders and gently turn her to face me, as her hand drops away from my chest. “Did a voider hurt you?” I ask.

  She pauses, as if suddenly regretting bringing it up in the first place. Eventually, she nods once.

  “Who was it?” I see fear in her eyes, and I quickly add, “No harm will come to you. I am in charge of the university, and will punish the student accordingly, without any risk of retribution to yourself.”