The Boy from Ilysies

by Pearl North

  The guards carrying Siblea led the way as Po and the others were herded back to their cells and thrust inside. No one bothered removing their chains. The chorus sat in a circle, staring at one another. “What do we do now?” asked Jan.

  No one had an answer. Siblea sat very still, his back to the wall, his face a blank mask. Po had never seen anything like that in his life. From the looks on the others’ faces and the covert, worried glances they shot Siblea, neither had the others. Hilloa nudged Po in the ribs. “See if there’s anything you can do for him.”

  “Me?” said Po, surprised.

  “Yes, you. You’re a healer, stupid; act like one.”

  Her words galvanized him. Po crouched beside Siblea and awkwardly placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  He opened his eyes. “There is little you can do, Po. My injuries are painful, but not life-threatening. That is by design, of course. I administered such torture to hundreds of prisoners in my time, and not one died from it. Just hope that they do not put us to work at the forges. That is another story.”

  “Will they feed us?” said Baris.

  “Let’s not wait around to find out,” said Hilloa. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “That is easier said than done,” said Siblea. “As you see, the door is locked tight. But I have an idea. The Lit King will doubtless wish to work with me further—”

  “What?”

  “Yes. It is no more than turnabout, Selene. I did it to him; I must accept it from him.”

  “No.”

  “Selene…do you know how many people died in this place while I was in charge of it? Four hundred and ninety-two. Redemption or no, can you honestly say I do not deserve this?”

  Four hundred ninety-two. Po tried to get his head around that number and its meaning, but he was too exhausted to hate Siblea right now. He hadn’t slept or eaten in over a day. This place stank and he didn’t want to think about what might be in the straw they were all sitting in. He squirmed around to Hilloa’s side.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “So far.” They leaned against each other. In a little while, they heard the sound of the key in the lock again. Po tensed as two guards entered. One of them stood by the door with a mind lancet while the other ladled out cups of water and bowls of gruel.

  They left again. Everyone ate the thin, sour-tasting gruel in silence, and drank some water. Hilloa fell asleep against him, and soon Po himself succumbed to exhaustion.

  Po was awakened by the sound of their prison door opening again. Two large guards came in while one stood by the door. They took Hilloa by the arms and began dragging her toward the door. Po sprang at them. One of them struck him across the chest with a mind lancet. Agony ripped through his body and he fell back. When he tried to get to his feet again, the other guard hit him in the solar plexus with his mind lancet. Red fire consumed his vision and the edges of the world burned.

  He awoke in the straw, his head cradled in somebody’s lap. His body felt like it was filled with shards of glass. When he tried to move, they sliced him. He lay still, but opened his eyes. It took a moment for his vision to clear. He was still in the cell. Hilloa’s face looked above. She pushed a lock of hair from his forehead and smiled. It was a sad smile. “How do you feel?”

  “Bad. But what about you? They took you.”

  “And now I’m back.”

  “What did they do to you?”

  “Nothing. They took me to a room where the Lit King sat and they asked me a lot of questions about who we are and why we’re here. Since you’ve been out, Selene and Jan have also been interviewed. Baris is with them now. It’ll likely be your turn next. If you cooperate with them they won’t hurt you much. I think the Lit King is saving the torture for Siblea.”

  Po turned his head and gasped at the sudden pain that rocketed through him. But he could see Siblea sitting just where he’d been before, silent with his eyes closed. He was either meditating or sleeping or desperately trying to maintain control—it was impossible to tell.

  The guards returned with Baris, who bore a bruise under his eye and held his arm as if it pained him. They shoved the Singer boy into the straw and turned to Siblea. Baris sat up and threw himself at them. “Lit filth! Leave him alone!”

  One of the guards kicked Baris in the neck, almost casually, then bent and took one of Siblea’s arms. Another two guards came in and approached Po. “You. Get up. You’re coming with him.”

  Po’s insides squirmed like he’d swallowed a live eel. He looked from Hilloa to Selene. But neither of them had any instructions or advice for him. They just looked frightened. He got up. His head swam but he managed to stay upright and then he didn’t need to worry too much about walking because the guards each took one of his arms and dragged him after Siblea.

  They took them up several flights of stairs to a room that had once been richly appointed. Beautiful wood paneling on the walls, with words carved into every available surface, now stood defaced. The red carpeting bore burn marks and stains. A large desk stood in the middle of the room, the Lit King behind it. He smiled as they entered.

  In front of the desk sat two chairs that were identical to the one into which they’d strapped Siblea earlier. “Restrain him,” said the Lit King.

  Po wasn’t sure who he meant at first, but the guards apparently did. They put Siblea in one of the chairs and restrained him. Siblea betrayed nothing. His face was a stone mask.

  The Lit King waved to Po’s guards and they brought him closer to the desk. The Lit King looked him up and down. “I understand you’re Ilysian.”

  Po said nothing.

  “You put up quite a fight earlier when my men came for Hilloa. I thought you Ilysian men were like women. I didn’t expect you to fight, but it’s been explained to me. You’ll never hit a woman, but you’ll fight a man at the drop of a hat. You don’t think much of men, do you?”

  Po didn’t know how to answer that, so again he said nothing.

  “I asked you a question!” He nodded to one of the guards, who hit him with the mind lancet. It was just a tap on the shoulder this time, but that was enough to send Po to his knees. The Lit King stood and leaned over his desk so he could maintain eye contact with Po. “Answer!”

  Po let his hate shine from his eyes. “I guess not.”

  The Lit King laughed. “You are going to be so much fun to break. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll be doing things you never dreamed possible. You’ll hit a woman and comfort a man. But first the easier of the two. Strap him in.”

  They pulled him up by the arms and shoved him into the chair. “Fight us and I’ll zap you again,” said one of the guards. Po was tempted to fight anyway but he could endure the torture with or without another mind-lancet attack; without was just marginally better. The guards strapped his arms and legs to the chair.

  The Lit King came around his desk and leaned over Po. “There’s a limit to how much pain a person can endure before shock sets in and the true severity of the agony is no longer felt.” He nodded at Siblea. “We know, don’t we, Censor?”

  He reached up and untied one of the ties of his robe. The cloth fell, baring one shoulder. It was covered in swirling scars. He watched Siblea while he did it, and while he reached up and undid the other tie. But when the garment fell from his body and lay pooled at his feet, it was Po to whom the Lit King turned. “It took Siblea and me fifteen years to do this.”

  Every inch of his body was covered in scars. Po’s mouth immediately went dry and he looked to Siblea. Siblea looked at the marks with familiarity and resignation. Po tasted bile. The next second he was fighting the urge to throw up. He searched the Lit King’s face. The man was mad, but there was a light of intelligence in his eyes.

  “He could only do so much at a time, you see, or it would be wasted. Every spiral and turn must be felt, must be experienced as it is embedded in the body, for the instruction to be effective. I quite agree. He did an admirable job, wouldn’t you say?”


  Po swallowed bile and searched his eyes. But he didn’t see anything in there but fire.

  “I would happily spend ten years to make you as I am, Siblea. But I don’t have to.” He turned to Po. “When he faints, you will revive him.”

  At dawn, Ayma lifted her head from the satchel, which had served her as a pillow, and crept from the little cubbyhole she’d found between a pillar and the thick stone wall of the dairy market in the market square. Already anybody with anything to sell was filtering into the area. It was nothing like it had been before the pilgrimage, but nevertheless the people who came had at least some resources, and some of them might need an honest pair of hands to help out in exchange for something to eat. She had done this before from time to time, and when she’d been able to find work, it had gone well.

  Before venturing out to try her luck, however, Ayma tucked the satchel with the pen through the neck of her dress and smoothed it down. The wide band of the satchel simply looked as if she wore a scarf around her neck, and no one would take much notice of the bulge of the book and the pen at her midsection. She was far from being the only one who carried their last remaining possessions on their person at all times.

  A man and a woman with a small child were busy shucking corn. They already had a line at their stall. The child kept wandering away and its mother had to fetch it, which meant they were falling behind the demand and the line was growing.

  Ayma had learned not to ask if she could help or try to negotiate any kind of payment in advance. Instead, she simply stepped up to the overflowing cart and began pulling the ears free from their green wrappers. The harried parents glanced at each other and then nodded at her. When business slacked off at midmorning, they presented her with ten ears of corn, enough for her to eat and maybe even trade some with someone else.

  That afternoon, gorged on corn and the peanuts she traded with a ten-year-old boy for her surplus, Ayma wandered the citadel, aimless. She had the strangest feeling, which had been creeping up on her ever since she realized that she could not go back to the tavern. She couldn’t fathom why, but somehow the realization had taken her fear from her. It didn’t make any sense at all, because losing her father’s tavern, her only place of shelter from the horrors of the Lit King’s citadel, should have been the worst possible thing that could have happened to her. But here she was, with a full belly, tired from good work and walking about the citadel as if she were on some sort of holiday. If it weren’t for her anxiety over what was happening to Po and Siblea at the hands of the Lit King, she might describe her state of mind as happy. As it was, she felt as if she had emerged from a long confinement and could now look about her and breathe fresh air.

  Her meandering path took her across Yammon Street. She paused in the shadow of a music shop and gazed at the Temple of Yammon at the far end of the boulevard. If there was anything she could do for Po and Siblea, she had to try.

  For the first time she truly regretted not paying more attention when that man from the Lit King’s mob had tried to teach her to write. At the time she’d been too focused on finding a way to wheedle food from him, but now…If she could write, she could use the pen. But she only knew two words, “the” and “and.” That wouldn’t get her very far.

  Perhaps she could find someone else who could write and get him to use the pen to free the chorus or even kill the Lit King. But she didn’t know anyone who could write who was not also a follower of the Lit King.

  That night she slept in her cubbyhole again, and the next morning there was a pumpkin farmer to help. She tried not to think about what she would do when her baby came, but most of all she tried not to think about Po.

  24

  Siblea’s Bloom

  The room seemed much smaller than it had six hours ago. Siblea’s screams had long since torn a ragged hole in Po’s mind. He stayed inside that hole and only came out when the Lit King made him.

  Now he kneeled at Siblea’s feet. He did not look up into the man’s ravaged face. He tried to ignore the blood dripping from the edge of his robe. It stank in here. He closed his eyes and he placed his hands on Siblea’s feet, cupping the arch, fingers feeling for his meridians. The first time he’d done this for the Lit King, he hadn’t thought he’d be able to achieve the concentration necessary for the trance. But he’d dropped into the attuned state as easily as falling out of a tree. His kinesthetic sense seemed to grow stronger all the time. Was there a connection between this and the many mind-lancet attacks he had sustained? When he’d assisted Adept Ykobos in treating Clauda, he’d often wondered if the weapon did something to its victims that heightened the body’s sensitivity to energies.

  Of course, there was no telling what treating an Ancient might have done to him. He wondered what state his own energy pathways must be in, but he did not bother to find out. He concentrated on Siblea. Three breaths and Siblea’s pain became his own. He felt a constant burning throb in his face and arm. The worst were his hand and foot, where the nerves were so sensitive. They felt as if they roasted in a fire he was powerless to flinch from. This was the sixth time Po had revived Siblea. In his mind he saw the now-familiar flower that represented Siblea and the state of his body’s energy pathways. It had been a beautiful flower once: orange and red petals and a yellow center with a vibrant green stem and broad leaves. Now it was crawling with ants. They did not destroy the flower or prevent it from absorbing sunlight or drawing nutrients from the soil—they simply marched up and down the plant with their needle feet and sank their needle jaws into it.

  Po was a gust of wind and he pushed the ants off the flower with his breath. The blossom was covered with welts and discolorations. Though alive, it had drawn its petals closed, cutting itself off from its environment.

  While the ants waited in a circle around the bloom, Po used his ability as wind to coalesce a cloud and bring soft rain down upon the flower. The rainwater had an agent in it to bring pleasure where pain had been. He watched as the plant gradually revived and opened itself once more.

  He tried to believe that what he was doing was helping Siblea. He knew it was only making it possible for the Lit King to hurt him more. But Hilloa, Selene, and the others were in the cell downstairs and the Lit King had made it clear what would happen to them if Po did not obey.

  To his shame, he wished Siblea would simply die, so it could be over, but that was not about to happen, either. The torture was well thought out, excruciating, and nonfatal. Regardless, it was taking its toll. It had only been an hour this last time before Siblea had fallen into a stupor. And though the art of kinesiology was focused on the physical body and its energies, those could never be truly separate from the mind, which was Po’s real concern. Po lingered in his trance as long as he dared, to give Siblea more time to rest. He forced himself to look at the man’s face as he awoke. Siblea blinked. Po mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

  Siblea did not answer. The guards forced Po back into his chair. Po wondered if he could have made it without their help. He was trembling and exhausted from his work. Nevertheless, they strapped him in, though the Lit King never touched him. He was simply another member of the madman’s audience.

  The old woman came in and stood at the back of the room, watching. Po kept finding himself looking at her, hoping that she would intervene. But she merely smiled appreciatively as the Lit King carried on with his torture. He talked as he carved lines into Siblea’s body. He compared what he did to what Siblea had done to him. Po found it difficult to sympathize with the Lit King.

  “All those years, Siblea, all those questions. Should I ask you questions? Do you know how much I never told you?”

  As far gone as he was, Siblea’s eyes glittered at that.

  The Lit King appeared delighted at the reaction. “You thought I told you everything, didn’t you?”

  Siblea nodded; perhaps he hoped it would placate him.

  “You don’t even know who I really am.”

  “You’re the Lit King.” Siblea’s vo
ice was a hoarse croak. Po was surprised he could speak at all.

  “I am the direct descendent of Iscarion himself.”

  Po had an idea. Perhaps he could distract the Lit King from Siblea. “All of Iscarion’s family and followers left after the folly,” he said.

  The Lit King turned and pointed at Po with the dripping knife. “That is what everyone was supposed to believe.” He turned back to Siblea and made a cut along the length of his right index finger. His voice grew removed as he concentrated on his work. “But his wife stayed behind to guard his secrets, and she gave birth to a son and taught the Iscarion family secrets to him, and they have been kept, in trust, in an unbroken line to myself, the great-great-great-great-grandson of the Literate Iscarion.”

  “You’re delusional,” said Po.

  The Lit King only smiled, and laughed a little under his breath as he reached for the jar. This was the worst part. Po permitted himself to close his eyes, but he could not shut his ears.

  “All those years you thought you’d won, you Singers,” the Lit King went on after Siblea’s screams had ebbed. “But we have never left, and we have never given up our faith. We hid books, a whole library full of them, in the midst of your precious citadel, in the place you would never dare to look. Can you guess where we hid them? Can you guess, Siblea?”

  Siblea did not answer.

  “You hid them beneath the stage in the old theater,” said Po. “Just above Endymion’s tomb.”

  That seemed to surprise him. He exchanged a glance with the old woman, who went to the back of the room and pressed on a section of paneling. It opened to reveal a door and she went through it.

  “Indeed,” said the Lit King. “It seems you did a little exploring while your fellows were imprisoned. What else did you find, I wonder.”

  “You’ll have to torture me to find out,” said Po, while part of him quailed at what he was doing.