by A J Burns
“The bullying?” asked Auron. “Yes, of course I have.”
“So, you admit she was hostile toward them?”
“Other way around.”
“Well, you can’t hold them responsible. Susyn probably started it, and even if she didn’t, can you really blame them? I mean…, seriously?” Reciting a common mantra, he said, “She must cease sinful desires.”
“Please tell me what’s going on! What’re you planning to do with her?”
“I see from where she gets her hostility.” He rested the back of one knee on the top of his other and scribbled a note. “Your child has been charged with repressed heresy. I suspect you know what that is.”
Auron nodded.
Mystics judged the perpetrators of repressed heresy. Their verdicts were always the same because all Raurs were born heretics, and only Raurs could commit repressed heresy because they were the only group not protected by its governance.
“Might I inquire how you even conceived a child?” the eunuch asked.
“I’ve only worked there eight years,” said Auron. In the common provinces, castration was necessary for Raurian men to become congressmen, magistrates, and chamberlains: any person of importance or a subordinate to those of importance. The congregation had deemed it an act of masculinity.
“You must understand: the holiest congregation only favors them because they’re un-favored.”
The conversation eventually ended with him telling Auron to return on the morrow.
His tread homeward seemed lengthier than usual as dancers pranced around the streets, waving flags and singing hymns. Trumpets harmonized with lutes and violins. Today was a holiday that celebrated the rebirth of Matheral.
“Mother of the soothsayers and oracles,” cheered the crowd. People moved around Auron, and against him, as he grieved. They were laughing or praying amongst themselves. Although they saw Auron crying, they didn’t seem to care.
Lawmen hauled thirteen Raurian children from the alleyway, clubbing them with batons before snatching away their bat and gloves, treating these kids with the same disdain that was usually reserved for murderers and rapists.
The older kids were bound and thrown to the ground while the younger tried to escape.
Brutality from law enforcement, though once a shocking occurrence that inspired protests, had persisted into normality. It was not that nobody cared; rather, it was that everybody expected somebody else to do something about it.
Auron was the only onlooker, but of witnesses there were many. He tucked his chin into his chest and continued upward.
Nobody greeted him when he returned to his house.
He owned a farmstead outside Grofven’s capital city. All its crops, and any signs of life besides that of humans, had withered and died. His property was humble but made of good material, not decayed and mildewed like the homes north of the lake.
His father had harvested these fields; and these fields had fertilized the best corn, wheat, and rye Auron had ever tasted. Now he bought food so insipid he was dependent on spices to stay starvation.
Auron grabbed his journal, dipped his quill in ink, and wrote.
“Vicariously I live while the whole world dies. When they first took my mother away I cried and I cried but then they told me she was evil—heretical and unfit to parent. My tears turned to contempt. Even that has now vanished into a sense of nothingness. She told me all her blasphemy—the three burdens and our former glory. Mother used to say: ‘The congregation seeks to make right every wrong.’ But these were all lies of course because the congregation said they were all lies.
“These same people tell us that the Mesals are our friends and then tell us that they’re our enemies. Our friends. Our enemies. ‘The Mesals are the ones who breach our borders, sack our cities and rape our women,’ they say one day. ‘But they have so much to offer our empire,’ is said the next. It’s not the Mesals I question. It’s the ‘most sacred’ congregation. I had always known these were lies to some extent anyway (though I don’t know which ones) but how could the whole country be so blind? Father used to say, ‘The brightest, strongest man can feel inadequate when the whole world tells him he is.’ Heaven please send me a sign.”
He dropped his journal and walked to the windowsill, having decided against any pursuit of sleep; the sound of passerby had made focusing difficult, and his head now ached.
He saw two men staring at him. He jumped backwards, startled, on the verge of scrambling, expecting the pale flesh of the Noconyx; but as the men neared, the torchlight emphasized their auburn hair and Raurian features. “We’re here about Susyn,” said one of them.
Auron opened the door and gestured them in. Whatever fear he had felt was overridden by guilt. “What can you tell me about her?”
They had nothing new to say about her, and little of the conversation was even about her. Instead, they talked about injustices of the congregation. They talked about what needed to be done, how it could be done, how it would be done. Hours had passed without formalities when Auron realized none had introduced themselves.
“I’m Kron—born and raised in Vykten before immigrating here,” said a man whose belly hung over his breeches. His height would have been tall for a woman though not uncommonly so; his familiars had nicknamed him “The Shortest Giant.” Gray whiskers dotted his beard and bushy eyebrows.
“My name’s Brenton,” said an old, lanky man snuggled within a cloak.
Even before the mention of Vykten, Auron had discerned from their dialects that they were clansmen.
Although most provinces had become common and were ruled by magistrates and congressmen of the bevros caste, there remained vestiges of royal provinces that were ruled by chiefs. The congregation held dominion over these royal provinces, but their influence was mostly external, having never fully infiltrated the last remnants of Raurian society. A recurrent axiom among heretics stated: “The congregation stabs you in the back and the clans cut you at the knees.”
The three men traveled to a hamlet east of town where they could further discuss matters. The brown bats had awakened from their slumber and seemed to follow the men as they entered the tavern.
“Why do our brothers sit idly by and allow these evils to happen?” asked Auron.
“Only when the bard sings no more songs—when their oil has dried and their incense gone unlit, will they encourage usurpation of the throne,” said Brenton, having obviously recited this speech before. “Only when their jobs have vanished and their stomachs growl, will they themselves be encouraged. We must pity the common man, for although he is easily pacified, he is pure of heart. It is his own honesty that makes him so oblivious to treason. A time will come when the beast is awoken, and when it is, the very heavens shall tremble. Our enemies see the cowards we have become; they do not understand it—why such warriors would bow their heads, but when the Raurs rise again, they shall flee like the cowards they are.”
Kron rubbed his nose. “T’is a matter of time until they kill us open in the streets. Each day our burdens grow. Our sons grow more perverse and wicked; our daughters are defiled by mere creatures—scum not worthy of our blades let alone our homes. The deeper they delve into oblivion, the more I see it in their eyes: once bright and lively, but now cold and empty. I understand an attack on our own is wrong, even if for the greater good. No…. Instead, we must fan the fire that causes the blast. Tomorrow the magistrate overlooks the fate of your daughter. Regardless of the decision, we shall strike this magistrate down.”
“The people love her, but she is not on their side.” Brenton was moving a spiraled medallion between his fingers, looking intently at whoever was speaking.
“She feigns her oddities—claims the Noconyx want her removed, but she sits in their pocket. Her face is like ours, but her mind belongs to them, having long ago lost its instinct for preservation. But our people, ignorant as they are, will mourn for her.”
“What’s gonna come of this?” asked Auron. “Their stom
achs are no less full, their jobs no closer gone.”
“Oh, but they are,” said Kron. “Our people endorsed this magistrate for her promise of prosperities—a Grofven with an extended harbor and booming economy….” After a moment of deliberation, he said: “More importantly, when she dies, the sheriff will inherit her position—and that sheriff happens to be of one mind with us. With this new sheriff, comes change.” He stared at Auron. “Well?”
Auron felt a tinge of guilt whenever his gaze met with theirs. “I…, I don’t know.” He shrugged a shoulder and lowered his head.
“Act not and you never see your daughter,” Brenton said. “What have you to lose if you do act?”
“Lots—limbs, eyes, internal organs! I happen to be very fond of all those.”
“Don’t be smart, boy. You and I both know the outcome of that trial. What kind of father lets his daughter become ‘reeducated’? You’ve surely forced many other fathers to make that decision. Are you suggesting you don’t know what goes on in that small, windowless room?”
During reeducation, those of wavering willpower were beaten and starved and isolated until their tormentor became their only thought and they became affectionate towards their tormentor. Those of resolute willpower had utensils hammered into their brains.
“What am I supposed to do?” Auron conceded. “I’m not a soldier.”
“When they bring out your daughter, yell for us,” Kron said. “That’s it.”
“Well, almost.” Brenton removed a dagger from his cloak’s pocket. “Take this. Make sure your daughter’s in the room. There will be a guard watching at the western entrance. When you yell for us, make certain that he’s unable to latch the door shut…. Understand?”
Hesitant as he was, Auron took the dagger and placed it on the table. “This is a senatorial province,” he said. “Even if the sheriff inherits her title, I don’t think there’s much he can do with it.”
“One step at a time.”
They talked throughout the night. When dawn was upon them, the two clansmen escorted Auron to the courthouse.
Magistrate Alena had the palest of skin and the darkest of eyes. Her body appeared to have matured sixty, maybe seventy years, but her face remained youthful.
Five eunuchs stood beside her, their hair long and braided, their faces beardless, and their bodies curvaceous. Auron would’ve mistaken them for women had they not broad shoulders and square chins.
They wore silk robes of white with eight shades of blue: the colors of the chancellor’s motherland.
A breeze blew through the palace, swaying ensigns, but having little effect on them or their robes.
Auron waited unattended for thirteen minutes. Neither Alena nor the eunuchs acknowledged him. Twenty-one more minutes he waited. Thirty-four more minutes followed those twenty-one. Still the magistrate ignored him.
2
Kron Vyktaur
Vyktaurian Heir
Kron had been waiting outside the courthouse for at least an hour.
He was not worried, but he had been and knew he would be soon again. He thought Auron weak and cowardly and unwilling to act alone, but he also thought him clumsy enough to botch the simplest of plans.
“You don’t think he’d do anything daft, do you?”
“I reckon he’s done enough of that,” said Brenton, turning his ear to the cawing of birds.
“Yeah…, you’re probably right.”
Kron had forgotten it was the winter solstice until now. The winds were bitter cold, carrying with them leaves and other debris. The bright-red foliage had turned brown. Most critters were hibernating, or preparing to do so, and Kron envied them as he nestled within his jacket.
“I mean, if something did happen,” said Kron, “it’s not like the magistrate would come announce it to the world.”
Brenton ignored him. He always ignored such rambling.
“I’m not second-guessing your judgment or anything—well alright, I am, but not—”
Screams echoed from inside the throne room. Brenton and Kron dashed inside and flanked the guardsmen.
Two of them were aiming their muskets, targeting Auron as he sprinted towards the magistrate. Kron came from behind them and slit the napes of their necks in one lateral motion. He spun one of the guardsmen around and jolted his sword deep into his chest.
The warm blood spilled onto his hand, and it occurred to him: he had taken life. It was a weird sensation, mixed with both guilt and pride. This moment lasted but a few seconds before his paranoia consumed him; hesitation was more fatal than bravado was.
Drawing his sword backwards, he sliced the other man’s heel before pushing him downwards and impaling him to the floor.
The two Raurs appeared as if they would’ve had difficulty climbing the stairs, yet they managed to hold their own against the men of lesser ages, however ungraceful the fight.
Brenton ran into the center of the room, having finally disposed of the man who had been posted at the entrance.
Three more guardsmen joined the melee, and three more guardsmen fell.
Candelabras had been knocked over, and smoke rose from the tapestry.
Auron kneeled before the throne. Blood covered his shirt and arms, dripping down to his hands and onto the floor. The blood was dark and thin, more akin to that of a Noconyx than a Raur. He looked at his allies, raising an arm and revealing the decapitated remains of Alena.
“Let’s go!” Brenton pressed a nock to his bowstring and released the arrow at an incoming assailant.
“Take Auron with you.” Kron ran up the staircase.
He parted the curtains and peered inside. Five women had sprawled on the floor amidst a ring of soothsayers. Smoke rose to the ceiling with every inhalation as the soothsayers burned the opiates inside their hookah. These men were too detached from reality to resist Kron when he came from behind and stabbed them. He hesitated when he reached the oracles. Then, having cleared his thoughts, he killed them too, thinking, “There mustn’t be any witnesses.”
Two Raurian men awaited him beyond the curtains. “Lay down your arms!”
Kron’s leg started to shake, and the fear that had deserted him now enveloped him. The release from adrenaline, though it had lasted for only a minute, was enough to remind him of his mortality.
He managed to suppress his quavers and heckle their attempt. “Explain yourselves, traitors! What makes you so afraid of death?”
“The night is upon us. All who refuse knee to the congregation will suffer.” The men charged, and Kron hesitantly struck them down.
Lawmen called for him as he stepped outside, and they ran towards him as he retreated.
He sped by the merchants and vendors, bumping against a caravan and tiling over a crate of herring. The farther he ran, the nearer the gap became. He released his momentum on a bystander, tumbling down and jumping back to his feet.
“That there man,” shouted a spinster. “He ge’in away!”
Kron reached for his sword, but it was not there; and within seconds, the lawmen had surrounded him.
They wrestled him to the ground, kicking and then stomping on his head until blood leaked from his mouth.
The crowd shared a sense of mirth as they heckled his resistance. He rose and fell and now lay on the cold, hard surface, reddened and bruised over the entirety of his face. The cops dragged him away, and the crowd pelted him with rubbish.
They threw him in a cell, beat him again, and left him to his thoughts; only then did his pain start to subside.
He waited for minutes that turned into hours and for hours that turned into days. The bucket beside his head now stunk of urine and feces. There was no mattress or blanket, and his enjoined hands were the closest thing he had to a pillow.
A servant opened the door and shuffled aside. In came an officer dressed in uniform and boasting a whip. “The others!” he shouted. “Where are the others?”
“There are no others.”
“You lie!” He lashed Kron
leftwards and rightwards and once from above. “Where are the others?”
The interrogations continued, but no answers were given. The nauseous stench, now his own, had sickened him; and although he heaved, it was without vomit.
He sparsely moved. Instead he sat there until his squalor was nothing more than a slight annoyance. The officer would come at dusk, then afternoon, skipping certain days and coming twice on other days.
Kron heard no noises outside this room, and he started to doubt whether they even existed.
When he was dreaming, he imagined white dogs; and when he awoke, he suffered from hallucinations, mainly of an eagle’s shadow soaring on the ceiling.
He had never felt what he felt now: the convergence of anger and destitution, the desire to kill and to be killed. He would find himself laughing manically amidst his tears, and only upon such realization would the room return to silence.
Tassels brushed against his face as he spit a second tooth from his mouth. “I don’t know where the others are,” he mumbled, clenching his teeth for the next attack.
He begged for it to stop on the after-morrow. His days here seemed to blend, and, after a while, he was not sure of how long the officer had been absent. He wondered whether he would see his family. He pondered the idea that Brenton had been caught and that this was a cruel punishment rather than an interrogation.
Crying into his palms, he burst into laughter; his wife had been harping on him about his weight.
To Kron, it felt like an eternity since he had last seen his family. His last question to his wife was about their kids. Supposedly, they had behaved themselves. Apparently, his son had learned new words (of which only one was vulgar). Reportedly, his cousin had visited thrice. They were all seemingly content.
From chuckles to smiles, he returned to sulking. He had been willing to give the cause his blood and his tears, to lose his home and his joy, and to take these away from those who defied him. Melancholy consumed him when he tilted his head, closed his eyes, and spoke. “I’ll tell you anything you want.”
