Bane of a Nation

by A J Burns

  She shrugged. “A few times.”

  He sniggered. “I’m sure you have.”

  “It’s chilly for this time of year.” She tightened the neck of her cardigan.

  He snapped his fingers. “Look at this loser,” he said, ignoring her. He yanked a teenage boy by the stub of his right arm and pulled him forward, pointing at the boy’s left wrist, which had been detached from a hand. “Thievery,” Bivek said, dropping the right arm. “Now, he’s a glorified mule.”

  “What did he steal?” Wynore asked.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Bivek beckoned her and tramped over the meld of mud and dead grass that led to his pavilion. “All that matters is the action,” he said, pushing aside his canopy’s sidewall, “which was thievery.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know that….”

  He noted her for a moment and then sat beside his bed. Removing his boots, he asked: “Do you cook?”

  “Why? Is that important?”

  “That’s a ‘no.’”

  She moved farther into the pavilion and sidestepped the entrance. “Where would you like to go?”

  He raised his head and stared at her. Almost grumpily, he said, “Nowhere.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I was just wondering. What should we do?”

  “Get on your knees.”

  “But…?” She shook her head. “Did you only bring me down here for a blowjob? What happened to fucking me?”

  “I don’t go bathing in water that one-hundred other men had already bathed in,” he said. “Extrapolate that logic to yourself.”

  Mortified, she spoke; “I don’t deserve this. I’m leaving, Bivek. This is not how you treat a woman.”

  “This isn’t how you treat a lady.” He unbuckled his belt. “Come over here.”

  “No.” She angrily blew him a kiss. Turning to leave, she said: “You’re a piece of shit.”

  “Don’t forget to fuck half the camp on your way out!” he yelled out to her.

  She shivered and crossed her arms. The men of the barracks continued to leer at her, some even licking their lips as she passed. She tried focusing on the flames of their campfires and ignoring their solicitations of eye-contact.

  Inside the gates, the streets had been deserted, and she wondered what had possessed her to leave the estate at this time of night.

  She was almost to her family’s estate when the man had approached her. “Excuse me,” he said; “Are you Wynore of the Kolsetta family?”

  “Why is that any of your business?” she asked, initially annoyed by his presence; but as the man continued to glower at her, the uneasiness started to build.

  “My name is Drathon Slochan.” The chainmail rattled as he stepped closer to her.

  She felt his warm breath against her neck.

  “I’ve been instructed to deliver a message on behalf of the Elynaurian chieftess.” He peered at her with unforgiving eyes. “So, I’ll repeat myself. Are you Wynore?”

  She stumbled backwards. “My father is Winston Kolsetta—patriarch of Orynen’s most prestigious family. Do you know who I am, or do you just know my name? What does she want with me?”

  “You shouldn’t be whoring yourself out to married men.” He grinded black powder into a bowl, and the liquid began to boil.

  “Daddy! Where are you?”

  The man’s name was suddenly recognizable. “I know you,” she said; “Our families are related—through my mother’s side.”

  “What do I care about a second cousin?”

  The boiling liquid burst into crimson flames.

  She made a move to dash away, but he snatched her by the arm and threw the liquid at her face, causing her skin to smolder. She attempted to scream, but the liquid drained into her mouth and down her throat, dissolving the lining of her intestines. She fell to the ground, wreathing in agony, unable to scream anymore. He kicked her in the stomach, three times and again, before bashing her face and abandoning her to burn.

  When she awoke, she didn’t remember much of what had happened. Her memories of what occurred after the attack were shrouded in blackness. All she remembered was awaking momentarily to the pain of a catheter and to the woman who had found her; Soraya had stepped outside to look for her, and that’s when she discovered her on the ground.

  Five days after the incident with Drathon, Mauro visited her in the hospital room. He sat beside her and glared. She reached out a hand for him, and he returned the gesture, but there was no force in his grip. She willed to speak to him, to ask the whereabouts of her father, to ask why none of her family had come to visit her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mauro said. “I know you better than this…. You don’t deserve it.” He loosened his grip. “But don’t go grabbing me like you feel something toward me. I’m nothing to you. You made it clear as day. I’m your little puppy-dog. You know what? Maybe I was. I loved you when we first met—when my mother hosted the fete at our place and you came with your father. I don’t know what it was about you. I even pretended to like your ‘art’ just so I could get to know you. But I was always just a joke to you, wasn’t I? You meant something to me. I practically worshiped the ground you walked on. Well, fuck you! I don’t need you or that bastard cousin of mine. I hope you both rot in hell.”

  Please, she tried to say, but she would never speak again. She wasn’t reaching out for Mauro in particular; he was a person, a hint of companionship in an otherwise isolated state. This isn’t about you, you fool. What is wrong with you?

  Her father never came to visit her but instead sent Varro as messenger, and she was overwhelmed by the sense of abandonment. She had inferred what she feared most: that her father was ashamed of her, angry at her like he was angry at the person who had attacked her.

  Gossip in Parven was like that of Orynen, and all those who spoke of her had labeled her a “slut.” Sex wasn’t the only act of importance in her life, no more important than it was to a wife who went to her bed with her husband every night. Still, people loved to judge her for her promiscuity; society was afraid of a woman’s sexuality because, apparently, despite violence being glamorized, giving pleasure was abominable.

  Her father had always tried to ignore the rumors or to give her the benefit of the doubt, but she was certain that he had stopped trying.

  “Your father, he mourns for you,” Varro said, holding onto her wrist. “He mourns every single night.”

  But I’m not dead.

  “He simply cannot come to see you tonight. He’s very busy. Busy finding those responsible. Whoever did this will hang from the city square.”

  She did not covet revenge; she desired to feel the wind against her skin, to feel the warmth of her bathtub, to live happily.

  17

  Maisi Caluso

  Mesallian Servant

  The chief’s sons had arrived at dawn. To see them both was a relief for her; she doubted Tefvon even cared. The grief had sent him to drugs; the drugs had detached him from reality.

  The brothers entered the great hall, their footsteps echoing in the void.

  “And what do you two want?” snarled Tefvon. “How nice of my two little fuck-ups to come visit me.”

  “Drink some more.” Kron hadn’t blinked since entering the throne-room. His feet seemed to stomp onto the tile, as if they were one hit from crumbling beneath him. “Do you want us to leave? Is that what you want?”

  “I want you to let me be.” Tefvon grinded the black powder in his palm. “I’m done with you. I’m done with all of this.” He tilted his head backwards and tossed the powder into his mouth.

  “This is what I was trying to warn you about!”

  “This is what I was trying to prevent.” He slammed his fist against the iron of his throne. “Don’t you see what you’ve done?” His voice was now much calmer, almost pleading. “How could you do that to her?”

  Gevon was staring at his feet and showed no signs of lifting his head. He stood there quietly, seemingly detached from the conversation.
>
  “Emowyn wasn’t the first casualty of this war,” said Kron. “The man who killed the magistrate had his daughter taken away—for nothing. A ten-year-old girl.”

  “Not my little girl…,” he mumbled. “But don’t you see? The gods themselves couldn’t win this war.”

  “Then I’ll die trying.” Kron parted his hair, slowing as he reached the top.

  “Yes,” Tefvon admitted, “but you’ll die for nothing.” The tar-sugar had taken a hold of him. His eyes reddened, the pupils dilating until they were a third of his eyes before contracting to the size of pinpoints. “Every fiber of my being wanted nothing more than to kill that treacherous Hytaur. I wanted it so badly that I stretched my army too thin, and the Bostaurians attacked our weakest point. They raped your mother then hung her from the balcony like a goddamn banner. She wasn’t even recognizable. Little Ron was grabbed by his feet and flung against…, against the….” Tefvon lowered his head. Tears had built up and came rushing out. “They left them here for my return.”

  “Father,” said Gevon presently. “We need you. Do it for Mother. Do it for Emowyn.”

  “Why did you never tell me what happened?” Kron asked.

  Tefvon had been nodding off into sleep. “Everyone thinks they’re the chosen ones—that the gods have picked them. But you want the truth? Sometimes it’s them who win. All the hatred we feel towards them, they feel for us…. And sometimes that wins.”

  “Have you no hope?” Kron’s voice boomed in the empty hall. “Ketewyn has set sail a dozen vessels. With them and the Elynaurian navy, we can take the coast.”

  “Heston Wostaur commands the Hilorian Sea. Without that, the outer ridges mean nothing.”

  “Wosten hasn’t made a move yet—a blockade on the Kynaurian ports. Eryek destroyed the bulk of their fleet fifteen years ago—”

  “Ketewyn has made no progress,” Tefvon said, almost to himself. “Her ships are old … her generals... You could get pregnant and give birth before those cannons of hers are reloaded.”

  “If we can crush the Wostaurs, the entire southwest will be ours. Otysoru is marching for Orynen, and a quarter of Mauro’s men are in Parven. If we give Kynaur passage in the sea, we can throw the Hytaurs back and reinforce Parven.”

  Tefvon smiled, absent from the conversation. He rested his head upon his shoulder and slept. Kron roared a curse and came to speak with Maisi. “How has he been doing?”

  “I’ve not seen him sober since.” She lowered her head. “The tar-sugar mainly, but whatever he can get his hands on.”

  “Look up,” Kron said delicately. “I need you to ‘misplace’ those shipments.”

  “Oh Kron, no—I can’t!” She didn’t want to evoke the chief’s anger, now of all times. “Pardon my words, but you don’t understand. He’s not your father anymore.”

  “What do you mean he’s not my father?” Kron rested a hand by his side.

  “He’s angry … always.”

  Kron laughed. “When has he not been?” Kron had always been sweet to her; even when his voice was commanding, she couldn’t sense impatience or agitation. “What are you talking about?”

  “Not grumpy like he usually is—angry.” She lowered her head again, not wanting to show her eyes.

  “Has he hit you?” Kron lifted her head and looked into her eyes.

  “No—no, never anything like that.” He had hit her, once in twenty-one years of servitude. Tefvon acted as a father to her, having raised her since she was nine. He had been drunk, bemoaning Emowyn’s death, when he hit her; the slap lasted but a second, and he apologized for hours. “He should grieve—of course—but he can’t even function on his own. It’s like all life has left him. He’s been berating the staff. Yelled at the equerry until he quit. I’m surprised he hasn’t keeled over as of yet.”

  “That’s my father for you,” Kron admitted. “He hasn’t changed a bit.”

  “Emowyn was his angel—a spitting image of your mother, daddy’s little girl.” She hoped the statement didn’t offend them, especially Gevon. “Pardon my words, but what does he have now? With you two gone, he has no one—nothing to do but think.”

  “Well he hasn’t put his thoughts to good use.” Kron shuffled bangs out his eyesight. “Now is the time to avenge Emowyn—avenge Mother.”

  “He must come to grips with reality. I don’t know his mind. I know not what he thinks.”

  “What about me?” Gevon asked, behind in the conversation. “What have I ever meant to him?” There was bitterness in his voice.

  “You all meant the world to your father,” she said. “Pardon my words, but he felt like it was he whom meant nothing to you. He’s spent the last seventeen years going crazy trying to protect you.”

  “He sure has a funny way of showing it.”

  “Now’s not the time,” said Kron. “Maisi, can you bring us to her?”

  Emowyn’s grave was on a hill that overlooked the lake. Gusts of wind soughed through the leaves and rustled the chimes. Orchids encircled the headstone, their stems bent towards the center. Emowyn used to pick them for her mother, and Tefvon had ordered a thousand of them for his daughter’s funeral.

  Kron kneeled down to read the chiseling of the stone: “Emowyn Sworfaur, 974-992T.E.” The gesture was not lost on Maisi; if Emowyn could’ve had some say from beyond the grave, she would’ve fancied herself a married woman. It was a selfless act of Tefvon, but one the Sworfaurian chief had protested against, “because her son was too young to be a widow.”

  “I thought she died before the ceremonies,” said Kron, tilting his head towards the stone.

  Maisi showed him a half-smile. “She used to love it here. ‘A hill!’ she would joke. ‘A hill—in Vykten!’” She raised an arm to her lips and blew away the mosquito that had been perched atop it.

  “I remember that!” Kron grinned. “Why is Mother still buried in Bwumen? She should be here, with her daughter.”

  “Wasn’t she from there?” Maisi asked, hardly remembering a detail about her. The family liked to act as if their mother was out tending to the garden and would return anytime; they rarely reflected on her past.

  “The royal family of Bwumen died out ten years ago. It’s run now by a bunch of verlots—loyal to the clans, but it’s not the same.”

  Gevon spoke up. “She wanted to be buried there. It’s where she and Father fell in love. Did you know he was actually supposed to take on her surname? She was the heir apparent until her older brother showed up; everybody had thought he was good as dead.”

  “I can see it now,” said Kron, chuckling. “Him sitting with a pissy look on his face while Mother barked out orders.”

  “Emowyn would’ve cried at being surrounded by all those swamps. No—my shoes,” said Gevon, and then there was silence.

  “She did hate the outdoors….” Kron’s face was distorted into something bleak. “Promise me, Maisi.”

  “Promise you what, Kron?” She already knew the answer. “Yes…, I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m not asking you to kick his habit for him; I’m asking you to remove it from our store. If he gets it elsewhere, I’ll deal with that. There’s no doing your best. It’s one decision. You do it or you don’t.”

  She and Gevon retired from the place of burial while Kron stayed behind. Maisi was jolted by a sudden hug from Gevon; he clung onto her for at least a minute.

  “I know you miss her,” she said. He was already twenty-two years of age, but he seemed a child. “Before she left, she was talking about you. She loved you—missed you.”

  Gevon remained withdrawn.

  “Come on, sweetie; let’s get you something to eat.” She freed herself from his grasp, not from impatience (like she thought he might infer), but for his own resolve. “Maybe heat some water on the bath-stove. You look like you could use a bath.”

  “I don’t need one.” He gestured for them to go forward, and they did. “It’s not Emowyn—I mean, it is, but not just her.”

  “What is it
, Gevon?” She stared at him. He had the dread of war in his eyes, and all that she needed to know about his mind was there on his face. “You know you can tell me anything.”

  “No…, I can’t.” He spat out the words like they were bitter in his mouth. “You did this.”

  “Did what?” His words appalled her. “What did I do?”

  “Oh, you know what? Fuck this. Fuck you!” He flashed a look of complete detest before hastening up the staircase.

  “Gevon!” She ran up to the pivot and pleaded for him to come back. She could hear Kron’s boots smacking the ground behind her.

  “He’s been acting strange lately,” said he.

  “What are you two doing together?” She moved slowly down the steps, straightening the wrinkles in her skirt. “Last I heard: He went off to join the imperialists. Your father likes to hide the fact, but it slips every now and again.”

  “Our men found him passed out in the barrens. They nursed him from a wineskin until he came to.”

  “Well you can’t blame him, I suppose.” She grabbed his shoulder, caressing it with the tips of her fingers. “I haven’t seen you this skinny in a while. They taking care of you over there?”

  Kron wrapped his arms around her in a gentle embrace. “Damn, I’ve missed you guys.”

  “It’s been awfully lonely. Too much space for so few people.”

  “Even the staff seems to have disappeared.” He sidestepped and peered into the mirror. His face had the little white bumps of milia. “I swear, these have been on my face so long, they’re starting to become features.”

  “I’ve just the right ointment for that.” She led Kron into the main bathroom. “Take a seat on the counter. I’ll fix it up.” She grinded the herbs into a bowl, mashing them together before adding a sprinkle of alcohol.

  “Were you telling me the truth?” Kron’s stare was intent, almost creepy. “Has my father hit you?”

  She dipped her finger in the paste and spread it beneath his eyes, dabbing at the infected areas. “These’ll go away in no time.”