by D M Wozniak
I give a bitter laugh. “I’ve seen more of the world than you.”
“Maybe,” he answers. “But I wager only the perfect places, which are really instances of the same thing. When you travel these roads to foreign lands, you are probably in a carriage, are you not? Surrounded by guards and servants, your windows covered with silk curtains.”
I don’t answer, since I don’t want to admit that he’s mostly right.
“Have you ever seen an addict? Someone whose life has been destroyed by the very drug you proclaim is lifesaving?”
I purse my lips, knowing where he is headed. “One doesn’t need to physically experience something in order to mentally comprehend it. I fully understand the risks of misuse. Risks exist with nearly everything—”
“It’s not the same thing. Thinking something and feeling something are entirely different.”
“Maybe for you.” I sharply turn to him as my passions rise within me. Not hatred for this man. Rather, pride in my students. Great, young men like the late Anaxarchis.
“You speak to me as if I were a child, unaware of the poverty and injustice in this world,” I say. “Don’t you realize that this is why I have insisted on sending my brightest students into the countryside? To places like your cursed Fiscarlo? I don’t have to do it. I could just relent to the king’s demands and have them go to war with the rest of their class. But I care enough to fight for what’s right. To give them up to the world. My best for the worst.”
“But do you ever visit them?” Chimeline says, before the effulgent can reply.
I take a deep breath. “My students? No. My schedule does not allow it. But we have discoursed via letters, on occasion.”
“And do they share with you their progress?”
I find myself vaguely nodding, because the truth is harder to explain.
Thinking back, I recall when the last letters arrived from any of my most recent students. The ones I have sent out since the war began. It was last wintertide. A half a year ago. One of the letters was from Anaxarchis. He had asked me to send him a shipment of coffee and ink. And the others? Cleanthes? His responses were curt. He shared few details of his experiences, which I attributed to his busyness. Same with the others. They were mostly curious about citadelian developments up north. When I wrote back to them, it was mostly local news that I shared, along with words of affirmation and encouragement.
But now I wonder if I should be concerned. The reason I had not heard from Anaxarchis was because he was rotting in the bottom of a well. What does that mean for Cleanthes? The others before him? They have not returned my letters either.
“Dem?” she asks, pulling me out of my paranoid thoughts, and I clear my throat.
“Times are tough, Chimeline. My students may not have access to paper or parchment, and not many letter carriers go through the remote towns anymore. And the ones that do can become easily lost along the way.”
“So you have no idea,” the effulgent says.
“That’s not what I said.”
“I know, but that’s what I heard. I do not doubt your noble efforts. Despite your black arcana and our war-hungry king, you are trying to make a positive difference. There is something to be said about that, but you are stumbling in the wilderness of your own making.”
“Even your compliments are insulting.”
“I only say the truth, master voider. You are not on the way of unwanting, and therefore you scatter your seeds on rocky ground.” He looks down. “Anaxarchis. He was one of them, and only tragedy sprouted.”
“Because you killed him!”
“One does not own the dark,” is all he says. It’s a maddening reply, and I have the urge to do him harm. But I simply close my eyes and focus on my breathing.
“I only hope that your other seeds have not suffered the same fate,” he adds quietly.
“That will depend on if they run into any other clumsy effulgents.”
“Look!” Chimeline shouts. I open my eyes and see that she is pointing ahead of us.
Movement against the blue sky captures my attention. It’s coming from one of the wooden observation towers perched over the field of red.
Someone inside of it waves a black flag.
“What does that mean?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe they see us.”
“It is not too late,” warns the effulgent.
“I said we’re not turning back.”
“Unlike yourself, I’ve been to the imperfect places. And this is one of them. This is a rogue plantation.”
“It can’t be. I told you, we’re right off Xi Bay Road. A rogue one would be well-hidden from the royal guard. It’s the king’s.”
“Then why are there no flags waving, besides a black one? Why isn’t the king’s sigil being flown?”
I look back to the field, and notice that he’s right. There are no royal accoutrements at all.
“Dem?” Chimeline asks me, concern obvious in her voice.
“Everything is going to be fine.”
But nobody relaxes. We continue to ride in silence until we reach the corner of the incredibly large hilma field. The effulgent pulls his large hood back over his head.
The sweetness blows in on the wind, making me lightheaded in the midday sun. Chimeline wrinkles her nose in a charming way, while the effulgent covers his mouth and nose with a cloth.
The sound of our horses’ hooves upon the gravel goes silent, and I look down. The road underneath us has become an unbroken red carpet of soft dead flowers.
To the right, hundreds of workers stand hunchback in the field, spaced out across the narrow rows between the chest-high flowers. Both men and women, young and old. They are almost hidden within the wildness. But their headdresses give them away. White towels coiled high, probably meant to ward against the sun.
Chimeline cries out in surprise as a large, muscular man exits the field to our right in wide strides. None of us had seen him in the field since he’s not wearing a white towel on his head. In fact, he is dressed entirely in black and has dark skin as well—a Xian man. He wears baggy black pants and a tight sleeveless shirt. A patch covers his right eye.
The only thing that isn’t black is his face. A chalky-white skull is painted there.
“I told you,” the effulgent mumbles.
il-Colu
Chimeline, the effulgent, and I pull our reigns to a stop as the Xian man enters the red-carpeted road only a few feet in front of us.
He smiles, his white teeth perfectly complementing his painted skull. Even his black eye-patch is partially painted over.
Quickly brandishing a machete from his side, he points it at me. “Black cloak. You’re a voider?”
“I am Master Voider Democryos,” I answer loudly.
He grunts. “Lots of interesting things coming by here lately. At least you’re on the ground, where we can reach you.”
He twirls the machete in his hand by its handle.
Chimeline inhales sharply, and I see that three other skullmen wait at the edge of the field, kneeling down within the shade of the hilma rows. They hold reeds to their mouths, probably ready to poison us with their darts.
“What did you say?” I ask the Xian man reflexively, even though I heard him perfectly fine.
“Lots of interesting things,” he repeats between his smile.
“Did you happen to—”
“Shut up. No sudden moves, voider. I’m going to take that stone of yours. Redskull’s orders. You’ll get it back once you’re on your way.”
Reflexively, I remove a hand from the reigns and raise it up to touch my voidstone, which is resting over my cloak and hanging from its gold necklace.
“Hey! I said no sudden moves!”
The Xian man takes a large step toward me, raising his machete over his shoulder, as if he is going to throw it. Meanwhile, movement to my right makes me glance in that direction. All three skullmen in the shadows are now pointing their reeds at me.
; “You touch it, you die.”
“There is no reason to resort to—”
“Put it down!”
My hand hovers in midair, halfway between the reigns and the stone, as I briefly ponder my options. I could grab hold of my voidstone and cut this Xian’s throat, or simply sever the hand that is holding the knife. My eyes dart to the right—the shadows in the hilma rows. I could create a membrane of air that pushes their reeds through the back of their necks. I could probably do all of this before they could blink their eyes, but I don’t know if there are more of them out there, out of my range.
Besides, the Xian man’s first words still haunt me. He can’t share information if he’s dead.
Lots of interesting things coming be here. At least you’re on the ground, where we can reach you.
I drop my hand.
“Did an airship pass by here?”
The Xian man wastes no time. He strides up next to my horse, reaches up with his free hand, and pulls my voidstone off. I wince as the gold chain snaps free from my neck, but I remind myself that I still have Anaxarchis’ stone in my pants pocket.
“The redskull will be eager to meet you,” he says, backing up.
Perhaps trying to remind me of who’s in charge, he holds out my voidstone in his hands, and bounces it in his palm a few times as the chain makes a crystalline sound in the golden, mid-afternoon air.
I glance at Chimeline and see fear in her eyes, while the effulgent sighs next to me, a different form of his prior admonishment lashing out. I told you.
I don’t share their fear. Instead, I am full of a guarded excitement I have not felt since stumbling upon the rogue lab in the moonlight.
“An airship,” I repeat, pointing to the sky. “A black sphere in the sky. Did you see one?”
He nods. “We tried shooting it down, but it was out of range.”
“Did you see who was in it?”
“Two people.”
“How many days—”
His head snaps up. “You can ask all of these questions to the redskull. Until then, shut your fucking mouth.”
They passed by here.
The Xian man whistles and the three other skullmen drop their reeds and come running onto the red road. They’re all northerners. Tanned by the sun, but still not nearly as dark as the one with the eye-patch.
“Get off your horses,” he says gruffly, waving his machete in illustration.
“It’s alright,” I tell Chimeline and the effulgent as we dismount, but their petrified expressions do not change.
The other skullmen come near. Two of them silently grab the reigns of my horse and the effulgents’, while the third northerner slowly walks around our group, making no attempt to hide his interest.
He approaches the effulgent. “What’s this? A graycloak?” he asks, peering into the shadows of the effulgent’s putty-colored hood, before roughly lowering it.
His eyes narrow suspiciously. “What sort of unholy business would put a voider and graycloak in the same party?”
Nobody answers. The northerner’s gaze passes right over me and lands on Chimeline. The whites of his eyes are not white at all, but a saffron yellow, and when he flashes a crooked smile at her, his teeth are grayish-green.
He looks at her from head to toe in gratuitous objectification.
“Got ourselves a little Scorpiontail,” he slurs, as he reaches out and grabs the patchwork blanket off of Chimeline’s shoulders, revealing her white lace dress underneath. He lets the blanket slip through his hands, onto the red petals at his feet.
“Jie, just take her fucking horse to the stables,” says the Xian man.
“Shut it, il-Colu,” he snaps, but he doesn’t break eye contact with Chimeline. Instead, he slowly reaches back out to her and grabs one of her dress straps, pulling it down over her shoulder to reveal her bare skin. She begins to shiver, but I doubt that it has anything to do with the wind.
“Let go of her,” I tell him.
He spins.
“You have no power here, voider. You ain’t pig shit without your fucking stone.” He briefly looks at me with an oily smile before turning back to Chimeline, eying her hungrily. “I'll let her go when I'm done with her.”
My anger rises rapidly, and I find myself touching the gold chain of Anaxarchis’ voidstone in my pocket. It’s right there, at the ready, but I hesitate.
I have no way of knowing what danger lies ahead. If I use it now, I will lose any element of surprise with the redskull.
He pulls down her other shoulder strap, and I grind my teeth in frustration.
I will not let this depraved man reproduce the horrors of old.
Leaving the chain in my pocket, I lunge toward the yellow-eyed man, shoving him as hard as I can.
He stumbles, but doesn't fall—he seems more surprised than anything. Recovering quickly, he turns toward me and approaches. My eyes go to the knife at his belt for only a moment, but that is all it takes for him to punch me squarely in the face.
I go down, hitting the back of my head against the road, as red petals float around me. Black spots dance in my vision. A swirl of black and red.
And then the glint of silver.
Legs straddling my body, he looms over me, brandishing his knife.
He lunges down and forward. But the Xian man reacts first.
A dark blur, the Xian swings his machete, knocking the smaller blade out of the skullman’s hand with an audible ring.
“Enough!” the Xian shouts deeply, looking at the two of us with his one eye. “Orders are to take all voiders alive!”
“He fucking touched me.”
“I don’t care. Take the horses and go.”
Yellow Eyes flashes me a sick smile before standing upright.
“Not so quick,” he says, rubbing his hand while backing up against Chimeline and her tan horse. “Not until I have a go at this Scorpiontail. Ain’t no orders about not killing no tail.”
Slowly, I roll onto my side and spit out a mouthful of blood. I’m still lying on the ground. The other two skullmen have taken their knives out with the sound of metallic shimmers. Both have crescent shapes.
“No one needs to know about her,” one says to the Xian. “We’ll bury her in the ditch.”
“She’s no voider,” the third adds.
“Now, now,” the effulgent suddenly proclaims. “There is no reason to resort to violence. We must be nothing. One does not own—”
“Shut up,” the Xian man and Yellow Eyes both say in unison.
For a moment, everyone is still, until the Xian speaks up. “We will all go to the redskull,” he utters. “Now. We have no idea who she is, or if he wants her.”
“Then don’t take a turn, old man. Probably can’t fuck at your age anyway.”
Another pause. “Don’t do anything you’re going to regret,” the Xian says.
Yellow Eyes looks at him, and spits. “If you say anything to the redskull about this, you gonna be the one to regret it. You fucking Xian. You ain’t no helmsman here. You’re just a one-eyed old man whose won’t see death coming before it’s too late. You ain’t nothing.”
The Xian man quickly alternates his gaze between the three northerner skullmen, his one eye wide. I can tell now that he is different than them. The other three all have yellow eyes. The one who hit me is the worst, but the other two have eyes nearly as yellow. The Xian’s one is clear. And he carries himself in an upright posture, his hands loose at his sides.
I find it odd that Yellow Eyes keeps calling the Xian an old man. He’s probably around the same age as me. And while the other skullman may be half our age, they don’t look it. Their drug use has aged them prematurely.
While the Xian is in impeccable shape, the other three look emaciated and wrinkled. The Xian’s hair is cut short, while the northerners hair is longer and tangled.
Yellow Eyes turns Chimeline around against her tan horse, which is now whining and stamping its feet in either excitement or agitation. Yellow Eyes
grabs both straps of her dress and rips it apart, tearing the lace down the middle.
Chimeline screams.
“You son of a bitch.” I try to get up.
Quickly spinning, Yellow Eyes kicks me in the gut, three times.
My breath is knocked out of me, the black spots return.
Someone tries to help me up, but my hands slip on the flowers and I go back down. It is the effulgent. I hear the other two skullmen laughing now, cheering on Yellow Eyes. Chimeline screams again. Her horse lets out a loud neigh and tramples off, which elicits more crackles of laughter. The deep, objecting sound of the Xian, like rolling thunder to their lightning. Red petals flutter around me. Bloody snow.
When I raise my head, Chimeline is lying on the ground in tatters, looking at me underneath her bangs with an expression that breaks my heart. It’s the look of disbelief that I would betray my promise and let this brutality happen to her.
The three skullmen stand above her, undoing the ties around their pants.
I fish my hand deeply into my pocket and pull out Anaxarchis’ voidstone by the chain.
Once it’s free, I grab it in my hand.
Anaxarchis’ stone is smaller than mine, and so it takes me a brief moment to adjust. The sound of the wind is not as loud, the imaginary voices in the cave not as persistent. The blackness not as black. But I can still see the indivisibles in front of me. The legs of three skullmen are clear enough. Skin, hair, muscle, sinew, bone.
Butter.
With a shudder of coldness not unlike jumping into a sea of ice, I briefly open myself up to the wind and cut through them all, while the wind cuts into me. It takes no time at all.
I let go.
Chimeline screams again, but this time her screams are different. Staccato, repetitive, one form of disbelief replaced by another.
The world of sunlight, gold, and red returns. But there is more red than before.
Two of the three skullmen have already fallen to the ground, their legs severed at mid-calf. Yellow Eyes still stands. Somehow his body’s weight is perfectly balanced upon the stumps of his feet.
