by David Angelo
6
THE SMELL OF COLD, damp limestone, mixed with a tinge of urine, filled Fin’s nostrils. A chilly, damp draft ran over his skin. The constant noise of water drops, seeping from an unknown crevice, filled the air with its echo. Slowly, Fin opened his eyes and was greeted by the white radiance of an overcast morning sky. But as Fin’s sight sharpened, he realized that the ivory glow was emanating from a narrow, five-inch-wide skylight carved into the center of a stone ceiling. Like the eye of a god, the light stared down upon Fin in a type of all-seeing, never-blinking glare from above. Fin’s head throbbed, his muscles and joints ached, and his mouth was uncomfortably dry. His tongue felt like sandpaper on the roof of his mouth, and his eyes burned with a dry, stinging sensation as he looked about. He sat up, but a sudden light-headed sensation hit him and knocked him back onto the hard, straw-filled mattress that he was lying on. Fin lay there, held down by the oppressive aftereffects of the drug, and observed his new surroundings. He was inside a small stone chamber, haphazardly painted white with cheap plaster. The old plaster was beginning to crack and flake, and chunks of the stuff hung from the walls and ceiling. The floor was carpeted with a layer of moss, dirt, and straw. It reminded Fin of a stable, and it reeked of one too. Suddenly, there was a rustle at the opposite end of the room.
“Ah, yer alive,” said a raspy voice. Wearily, Fin craned his neck in the direction of the voice and saw a pale Faranchie, crouched in the fetal position, in the opposite corner. Fin could see the curves and edges of his bones poking from beneath his leathery hide. His drawn, sunken face, with a mouth full of rotted teeth, looked at him with a pair of large, bloodshot eyes. Flies buzzed around him, landing on his nose, his lips, his eyelids, and the many cuts that covered him from head to toe, but he did not seem to feel them. He shook uncontrollably, shivering in the dank cold of the chamber, with little more than a moth-eaten burlap blanket to keep him warm.
“Where am I?” Fin asked.
“Whaddya mean, kid?” the Faranchie said. “Yer in Triticon. The deepest, blackest hole in all o’ Edon. For a sec, I thought you was dead. They lay you here late last night, and you none move till now. I was just getting ready to call the guards, to get you outta here before yer body start stinkin’ up my joint. Why you here, anyways?”
“I don’t know,” Fin replied, his mind still half-asleep.
“Oh, come off! You’ve had to have done somethin’ to get yerself locked up in here. Everyone does. I dunno what I did to get myself in here. I forgot. But I do know that I’ve been here for a long time.” The Faranchie motioned with his head to the wall behind him; the plaster was covered from floor to ceiling in vertical scratches, arranged in sets of four with diagonal lines scratched through each set.
“Are those how many days you’ve spent in here?” Fin asked.
“Yep,” the Faranchie said. “But I stopped after day one hundred eighty-three, and that was a long time ago. I forgot how many years it’s been since then, but I think I was your age when they lock me up.”
Suddenly, there was a banging on the metal cell door.
“What are you yapping about?” someone asked. Fin looked over his shoulder and saw a Cullidon guard dressed in a blue cloak, with a blue shroud over his head. The shroud was fitted around his elongated snout, with two holes punched out for eyes and a small snit for his nose. The guard wore a copper chest plate around his torso, with a chain mail skirt over his waist and around his legs. He held a wooden baton, which he rested on the edge of one of the metal bars. The guard was about to strike the bar again but froze when he saw that Fin was awake.
“Oh my,” the guard mumbled. “Hark, get over here. He’s awake.” The sound of brisk footsteps echoed off the stone floor of the cellblock. Then the guard named Hark appeared next to his comrade by the cell door. He looked identical to the other guard in dress, except that his shroud and cloak were red instead of blue. Hark dug a little in the pocket of his cloak and took out a key. He jammed it into the door’s lock and turned it sharply to the right. The rusted door opened with a creak, and Hark entered first, followed closely by his comrade.
“Rise and shine,” Hark said. “You’ve got a big day ahead of you, kid.”
Fin did not respond.
“He’s still under the influence of the sedative,” the other guard said. “We can’t bring him in front of the emperor like this.”
“Scaljon’s not going to care what shape he’s in,” Hark replied. “Just as long as he’s able to walk without us having to carry his sorry ass.”
“Scaljon?” Fin asked.
“You heard me correctly,” Hark said. “He just arrived a few minutes ago, and he wants to see you.”
“Tell ’im he can go kiss my—” Fin’s cellmate started. But before he could finish what he was saying, Hark sprang upon him and delivered a barrage of quick, heavy hits with his baton. The Faranchie wailed in pain with every strike.
“Say that again,” Hark growled, hitting the prisoner one last time on his rib cage, “and I’ll make boots out of your skin.” Hark then turned his attention to Fin.
“Can you walk?” Hark asked.
“Yeah,” Fin said. “I think so.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” Hark said. “Move it!” Hark grabbed Fin by the arm and jerked him to his feet. Still dizzy, Fin stumbled out of the cell, and he would have fallen on his face if it were not for Hark’s viselike grip. When the blue guard exited the cell, Hark pushed the door shut with his foot and locked it with his free hand.
“One more thing,” the prisoner asked.
“Don’t make me come in there and make you eat this baton,” Hark snapped.
“No, I don’t want no trouble,” the prisoner said. “I have a question: What’s my name? I forgot.”
“Sardou,” Hark replied. “That’s your name.”
“Thanks,” the prisoner said.
“Is that really his name?” the blue guard asked as they made their way down the cellblock.
“Beats me,” Hark said. “I just made that up off the top of my head.”
The gravity of Fin’s situation sank in as he was led down the dark, decaying cellblock to his destination. The guards’ heavy boots clicked off the stone floor, echoing all the way to the top of the arched ceiling. Torches illuminated the passage, casting dim and freakish shadows on the stone walls. Aside from their footsteps, the hall was deathly quiet, with only the slight rustling of prisoners in their cells to break the stillness. Every prisoner Fin saw looked back at him with a void, expressionless face. Most of them were Faranchies, but there were a handful of Cullidons sitting behind bars. They all resembled walking corpses, the color drained from their skin, bodies eaten away by hunger and disease. This was Fin’s future, and all he could hope for was that he would die before he joined their emaciated ranks. Did anyone on the outside know he was in here? Cathwise saw him get attacked and captured and had probably told everyone at the home by now. But that was only if he got away. As far as Fin knew, the Cullidons probably took Cathwise, too, or killed him before he was able to escape. If Cathwise did make it back home, what would Alto and the rest of the house think? What would Scarlet think? In the words of his cellmate, Fin was in the deepest, blackest hole in all of Edon. There was no hope for escape, rescue, or any way to contact the outside world. Scarlet and everyone else at the home would spend the rest of their lives wondering what had happened to him, where he was taken, and what fate had befallen him. Scarlet in particular would be wrought with a grief so strong, it would kill her from within. Fin hung his head and felt the brunt of responsibility for all the pain and suffering she would endure for the rest of her adult life.
The guards led Fin down to the end of the corridor and into the center of an octagonal rotunda. A large, cherry-oak table sat in the middle of the room. As Fin was led into the octagon, he discovered that there were eight archways, one on each of the room’s eight walls, opening into eight different corridors and cellblocks. A guard was positioned between
each entrance; they were armed with close-range muskets, their faces obscured by black shrouds. Fin was ordered to sit on a bench in front of the table and wait for further instructions. The guards stood on either side of the bench, their hands on their batons, ready to pounce if Fin tried to escape. As the sedative wore off, Fin realized just how futile a dash for freedom would be. Stand up, and he would have his skull cracked. Try to run, he would be shot. Fin felt like an ant trapped under a shot glass. Before Fin could ponder other ways of escape, the slam of a heavy door startled him, and its vibrations reverberated throughout the room. This was followed by the sound of footsteps from the corridor directly in front of where Fin was seated. The footfalls came closer and closer, until two Cullidons emerged from the darkness. One was none other than High Emperor Scaljon, the most powerful name in Edon’s parliament. Scaljon wore a green cloak, adorned with gold trimmings of the most elaborate stitchwork money could buy. The white mane on the back of Scaljon’s neck was trimmed and groomed into a sharp, squared-off ridge, and his spines were visible between his strands of hair. His face was clean, without a sign of facial hair, and a single gold ring pierced the green flesh of his left ear.
Scaljon’s partner appeared to be much older, with a long, white beard under his chin that nearly blended into his old gray cloak. His head was adorned with a small red fez, a gold tassel dangling off the top. A large pair of spectacles with thick lenses hung off the end of his nose, enhancing the size of his small, beady eyes, making them look like two unnaturally large globes. Underneath his arm he carried a rectangular leather pouch that appeared to contain a book of some sort.
When Scaljon reached the table, he looked Fin over from head to toe.
“This is him?” Scaljon asked. “I would have expected someone a little taller and perhaps with some more meat on his bones.”
“The, the, the—that’s what the, um, um, um,” the other Cullidon replied.
“One word at a time, Huac,” Scaljon said.
“Yes, sir,” Huac said. “That’s what the authorities in his home vi-vi-village of Notnedo sa-sa-said. According t-t-to them—”
“I’m aware of their report,” Scaljon replied. “I know all about his run-in with Cato in that bar. But I need more proof that this…boy is a so-called ‘prophet.’”
“How the—?” Fin stammered, but he stopped before he could continue, lest he accidentally incriminate himself. However, Fin knew that it was probably too late for redemption. Scaljon took a seat opposite Fin at the table, while Huac stood by, waiting for further instructions.
“What is your name, may I ask?” Scaljon said.
“My name is Fin. What’s it to you?”
One of the guards smacked Fin on the back of his head.
“Show some respect for your leader, punk!” Hark snapped.
“Testy today, aren’t we?” Scaljon asked.
“Well, yeah,” Fin said, rubbing the back of his skull. “I’ve just been kidnapped and sent to Triticon, haven’t I? What else do you expect?”
“Point taken,” Scaljon replied with a nod. “So, why do you think you were kidnapped and brought here?”
Fin kept his mouth shut.
“Oh, you think this is about Cato,” Scaljon replied, “the executioner you killed in the dining room of your pub three weeks ago? Even though you were caught red-handed, I still couldn’t care less about him either way. He was an insignificant character, and his untimely death was inevitable. Besides, that’s not the reason why you’re here.”
“Then why else am I here?” Fin asked
“You’ll know soon enough,” Scaljon said, before turning to Huac and saying, “Identify him in the log. I want to make sure he is who he says he is.”
“Ye-ye-yes, sir,” Huac said. Huac reached into a bag that hung around his shoulder, pulled out a large, leather-bound book, and plopped it on the table. He opened the cover and flipped through the dried-out old pages, which cracked and kicked up clouds of dust with every turn. When Huac found the page he was looking for, he stopped and ran his fingers down the side of the page, squinting at the writing from behind his glasses.
“Ah,” Huac said, resting his finger on a page. “Fi-Fi-Fin. Bo-bo-born eighteen years ago, off the re-re-record, in the vil—state of Led-Ms-Nu. Registered wh-wh-while under the care of an orphanage after hi-hi-his seventh birthday.”
“You parents were underage when they had you, weren’t they?” Scaljon asked.
“That’s what I’ve been told all my life,” Fin said.
“It’s the reason why you weren’t registered at birth,” Scaljon replied, “or were ‘born off the record.’ Your guardians were trying to protect you from a life of enslavement, the fate of most children born to underage parents.”
“I must be lucky,” Fin said.
“Why do you say that?” Scaljon asked. “You can still be sold into slavery at the drop of a hat.”
“Because I know I’m less valuable to you now than I was when I was a baby.”
“Explain.”
“Well,” Fin started, “children who were broken into slavery at a young age, say, as an infant, tend to be more submissive than someone my age, who would be much more likely to flee or rebel against their owner. Usually, the more submissive and obedient the slave is, the higher price the slave barterer can charge for them, which means higher taxes could be levied against them.”
“Intriguing observation, Fin. Go on.”
“When parliament saw how much they could make from the sale of so-called ‘lifelong’ slaves in taxes, they passed the population control laws and placed the age limit on intimate relationships. They knew, however, that young Faranchies would not be able to control themselves and that the law wouldn’t work in reducing the population. But that wasn’t the goal of the laws in the first place! The purpose of those laws was simply to get more lifelong slaves into the system, which would result in more money going into parliament’s accounts.”
Scaljon folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face.
“I’m impressed,” Scaljon said. “And you came up with that theory all by yourself?”
“Most of it,” Fin replied. “I had some help. Alto, my foster father, taught me the ins and outs of the rallod and the meaning behind taxes. But other than that, I was able to create the rest of the theory by thinking with the mindset of a greedy Cullidon bureaucrat. It makes sense; you make more money, there are more lifelong slaves in the system, everybody wins. Except, of course, the children you sold off and the parents you tormented as a result.”
“You’re right,” Scaljon said. “It does make sense, because that is the exact reason why those laws are in place. You’re probably the first of your kind who’s figured that out, and you’ve just passed the first test.”
“What test?” Fin asked.
“Never mind,” Scaljon said. “Now, let me see your hands.”
This was the last thing Fin expected Scaljon to say, and he hesitated.
“My dear boy,” Scaljon said. “I know you’re not deaf, and I know you can speak my language. Now please, show me your hands.”
“What is this about?” Fin asked.
“You’ll know soon enough,” Scaljon replied.
“Personally, I’d like to know now, if that’s not too much to ask for,” Fin said.
Scaljon narrowed his eyes and pointed an incriminating finger at Fin. “Keep in mind where you are right now. You are in a place where we can do literally anything to you. Just think about the sickest, most unpleasant form of punishment that could ever be inflicted upon a living thing. We can do worse, much worse, if you choose not to cooperate right now.”
Fin gulped. Not wanting to suffer a painful price for his arrogance, he begrudgingly placed his hands on the table in front of Scaljon.
“Turn them over,” Scaljon said, “palms facing up.”
Fin did as he was told, and Scaljon and Huac peered down at his open palms.
“Huac,” Scaljon
said. “Get the diagram out and make a comparison.”
“Ye-ye-yes sir.” Huac reached into his bag and took out an old piece of yellowed parchment with some sort of abstract shape drawn on it. Huac placed the diagram on the table next to Fin’s right hand and proceeded to look back and forth between it and Fin’s palm.
“I-I don’t see it,” Huac said, shaking his head.
Scaljon stood up and leaned over the table for a better look.
“Try turning the diagram upside down,” Scaljon said.
“Okay,” Huac said. After adjusting the position of the diagram, Huac’s blue eyes widened behind his lenses.
“B-b-by the Elder,” he whispered.
“What?” Fin asked.
“It is the right shape,” Scaljon said with a nod. Intrigued, the guards at Fin’s sides tried to catch a glimpse of the diagram for themselves.
“But how can we know if it’s for real?” Scaljon asked.
“If what’s for real?” Fin asked in response. Scaljon looked at Fin and pointed at his palm.
“This mark on your right hand,” Scaljon asked. “Is it a tattoo?”
“No,” Fin replied, a little puzzled. “It’s a burn I got not long ago. Why?”
“You’ll know soon enough,” Scaljon said. “What do you think, Huac? Do you think we’ve found him?”
