by David Estes
He stood before her, meeting her gaze with steely gray eyes that never seemed to blink.
“Kneel before your queen,” Ennis said. Though her cousin was wholeheartedly against bringing this man here, he was still utterly loyal to her claim on the crown, a fact that continued to delight her.
The man said, “I kneel before none but Wrath.”
“You will kneel or you will be made to—” Ennis snapped, but Rhea silenced him with a hand.
She smiled. She liked this man already. His defiance. His fearlessness. “Bold words for an outcast.”
They called him the Summoner, which was the same title his father had worn before him. And his father’s father. And on and on, for centuries. Somewhere along the lines, one of the Loren monarchs had determined the Furies were the true warriors of Wrath, not these shadowy Summoner men. However, out of respect for their history, they’d been permitted to live, so long as they didn’t speak their sacrilegious words in public.
“In Wrath’s Eye, I am no outcast,” the man replied. “Have you brought me here to kill me?”
History had a way of jading people, Rhea mused. “What would you do if I had? What would you Summon using that legendary power of yours?”
The man dropped his cane and stood tall, his hands extending to each side. His mouth opened wide in a silent howl and his arms shot over his head, palms forward.
Ennis moved to grab him, to stop him from doing whatever it was he was doing, but then the man dropped his hands and began laughing. Ennis grabbed his arm and said, “Watch yourself, old fool. Your games are not appreciated.”
Duly chastened, the man stopped laughing and looked back at Rhea. “I do not Summon. Wrath Summons. I am but his mouthpiece, his hands and his feet in the second heaven.”
Rhea nodded. “I heard a story when I was a child,” she said. “A story about a great monster that lived in the sea.”
“Wrathos,” the man murmured, speaking the name reverently.
Ennis said, “That vile creature is now known as Demonos, if it ever existed at all.”
“It existed,” the man hissed. “It exists.”
“Good,” Rhea said. “And you believe it is still loyal to Wrath?”
“Yes, for God created it. Just like me.”
“And you can—as Wrath’s mouthpiece—Summon it again?”
“Princess—I mean, Queen—no,” Ennis said. “That…thing is not of Wrath, it is a demon, the spawn of the devil himself. You cannot control it.”
“I can and I will,” Rhea said. She turned to the Fury, who had watched the entire exchange with mild interest. “Show the Summoner to one of the empty suites. Give him all that he desires.”
“I desire nothing but your trust, Your Highness,” the Summoner said. He bent down and retrieved his stick, breaking it in half over his knee. “I already have everything else.”
“Rhea!” her twin brother and sister cried in unison. They rushed to the bars and pushed their hands between them, reaching for her.
She took a step back. They were filthy from sleeping on the dirty floor. They were thinner, too, which made them look even more like the weasels that they were.
“Rhea?” Leo said again, his eyebrows pushing together. His long, blond hair was greasy and stringy, making him appear as ordinary as a street rat. “Get us out of here! They said Cousin Jove was dead. He was supposed to be the king!”
“Yes,” Bea agreed, nodding rapidly. “They said we had to hide down here for our own safety. But we’re safe now, aren’t we?” Even in such a disheveled, malnourished state, she was utterly breathtaking, her blue eyes like turquoise crystals, her golden locks lustrous, curling around her chin. Rhea hated her perfect, porcelain features. She longed to cut off her curls, to draw lines down her face, to mar her perfection.
The twins looked pathetic, in the dungeons. Once, Rhea might have felt sorry for them, might have offered them a second chance. Been merciful. But not anymore. The memory of how they’d scorned her, mocked her, pointed accusing fingers at her, was seared in her mind. They knew the truth about the W scarred into her face, what it really represented. And they had big mouths. No, there would be no redemption for the sniveling brats that stood before her, pleading.
She said nothing, turning her back on them as they cried for her to return and set them free.
Ennis walked beside her, prattling in her ear. He spouted his usual objections and religious quotes and mentions of Rhea’s “best interests” and the “peace and safety of the kingdom.”
Rhea ignored him and focused on the citizens of Knight’s End, who stopped what they were doing to watch her march through the city, surrounded by furia. She noticed several with the familiar W slashed across the whole of their faces. They were on their knees, their hands clasped together, their lips parted as they whispered silent prayers to Wrath. Rhea kissed her fingers and extended them in their direction. The Devoted, as they were now being casually referred to, instantly collapsed, as if touched by the Hand of Wrath.
Rhea wasn’t certain whether her newfound power was actually bestowed by Wrath or whether she’d simply planted that in the people’s minds. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was she had it and she would use it to make the west great again.
She caught a few darker, less friendly stares, too. These were the unbelievers, either in Wrath or in her. She knew with an uttered word and a flick of her fingers her furia would punish them, even kill them, if she wanted. But she stayed silent, offering them each a smile and a nod, to which they responded with surprised looks. She knew she would win them over in the end. But if they crossed her…
As she continued her march through the city, more and more flocked to her, surrounding her furia, joining the parade. Children called her name and threw wreaths of flowers. Ennis tried to keep the projectiles away from her, but she caught several and draped them over her head and around her shoulders. The children cheered.
“Today I visit the Furium,” she said to the onlookers. “In the attack on the castle that killed my father, the furia’s numbers were greatly depleted.” It was not true, but they didn’t know that. Some of them may have seen the Three riding south with a large contingent of their righteous sisters, but they did not know that most of the red warriors had yet to return. “The Furium is the most important building in our great city, as it is our future. I implore all the young, strong women of Knight’s End to accept the honor given to you by Wrath and join the red ranks and earn your place in the seventh heaven.”
Though the throng was now hundreds deep, blocking the streets and disrupting the merchants’ daily trade, she could hear her message being passed backwards through the crowd, like a ripple in a pond.
Girls of all ages ran ahead of her, laughing and chasing each other as they made their way to the Furium. In some cases, Rhea spied mothers or fathers carrying their daughters, who were kicking and screaming and fighting it every step of the way. Rhea knew it didn’t matter. Once inside the Furium, they would be subdued. Broken, if necessary. Recreated in the name of Wrath. Forged anew with strength and loyalty, damaged swords made stronger. In other cases, however, their mothers and fathers tried to grab their children, to stop them, pleading with them not to go. But the young girls were swift of foot and nimble, and they soon vanished into the human tide. Their parents dropped to their knees and wept openly.
“Halt,” Rhea commanded. Her furia stopped in an instant, taking no more than an additional half step. Their unquestioning obedience gave her chills. She moved through her lines of red-cloaked women, and they parted like stalks of wheat before a farmer’s scythe.
When she reached the wailing mothers and fathers, she knelt beside them and touched their cheeks. They looked up with wet, weary eyes. “Cry no more,” she said. “For your sacrifice has earned you a place in the seventh heaven.”
And then she stood and turned her back, continuing on while they praised Wrath’s grace in her wake.
“You should not promise so much,”
Ennis hissed at her when she returned to her place by his side.
She laughed gaily. “Shouldn’t I? My promises shall stir them to carry out my will.”
“And when your promises are broken?”
She frowned at him, not appreciating his tone. “How can you be certain they will be broken? In any case, I will not be there when Wrath refuses them entrance to the heavenly garden of light.”
“You give them false hope.”
“Hope is our greatest weapon,” she snapped back. “Hope will build my army and lead us to victory. And if hope doesn’t work, there is always fear.”
Ennis shook his head but didn’t respond. She wondered how long his loyalty would hold, and when the dam broke, whether he would fade quietly into the night or have to be put down. She hoped the former, for she still loved him, in a shared-history kind of way.
They reached the Furium. If not for its bright-red arching doors, the nondescript building wouldn’t have stood out against the neighboring structures. A line of red-clad women guarded the entrance, their blades held in both hands, their points touched to the tips of their noses. Actually, calling them women was being generous, for none of them appeared older than Rhea, who was naught but sixteen. And yet they were disciplined, their eyes never shifting from their steadfast gaze forward, even when Rhea walked slowly past them, waving her hand across their faces.
The Fury stood silently, watching.
Rhea turned to her. “These are your best?” she asked.
“We have no best. We are all equal.”
“Even you?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation, no lie. This woman believed her words from the depths of her soul.
“And if you die?”
“I shall be replaced by another.”
Rhea nodded. “Good.” She gazed behind the guards. A crowd of girls were being funneled inside, the new blood Rhea had recruited as she marched through the city. “May I go inside?”
In truth, it wasn’t a request, but a command, but Rhea was in public, and she needed to keep the appearance that the furia were separate from the monarchy, an independent law-keeping body.
“Of course,” the Fury said. Without being asked, two of the guards stepped aside. Momentarily, the line of recruits was halted so that Rhea could enter the structure.
Inside was a red-painted atrium with unadorned walls, save for a large image of Wrath. As taught by the furia, God appeared as neither man or woman, human or other creature. The form had the face of a human, the arms of a tree, dark clouds bursting with lightning atop the head, pointed blades for teeth, swirling tornados for legs, the eyes of a tiger and the nose of an elephant. God was everything in creation, constantly changing.
Rhea noticed something else: Many of the features were constructed of gemstones, glittering on the wall. Despite the Furium’s modest appearance, there was great wealth here. There’s wealth in serving Wrath, Rhea mused appreciatively. Wealth and power. A lethal combination.
“Carry on,” she said, watching with interest as the new blood continued to move through the line. First they were stripped naked, every possession they carried or wore taken from them. Some girls protested, but most didn’t. Some covered themselves with their hands, but most didn’t.
The Fury spoke to them. “We are all naked in the sight of Wrath. We have nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. From this moment forward, you are not beautiful or ugly, not strong or weak, not large or small. Here you simply are. Here we are all sisters. Here we are all kin. Together we will fight, and die if necessary, for Wrath’s will.”
Next, a pail of water was dumped on the head of each girl. Several of the furia would then descend on them, scrubbing their skin so hard it turned red.
The Fury continued her monologue: “The outside world has made you filthy, even the most righteous of you. We cannot allow the worldly filth to enter this sacred place. You are not clean until it hurts.” Some of the girls began to cry out from the pain, while others bore it with gritted teeth of determination.
Once each girl was deemed to be sufficiently clean, she was taken to an area with a large vat filled with a red liquid resembling blood. “Is that…” Rhea said.
“Dye,” the Fury said.
Of course. Each girl’s hair was then dyed red, including their eyebrows. Finally, they were dried off and given the familiar acolyte’s robe, which was half-red, half-white.
Rhea walked along a line of fresh acolytes who were being taught to stand at attention, though most of them flicked their eyes to look at her when she passed. It was strange, how similar they were already beginning to look after only a few changes. The red hair, the robes, the scrubbed skin. They really could be sisters, Rhea thought.
“I want to see more,” she said.
The Fury hesitated for the first time since Rhea had broken her into a million pieces. Immediately she understood why. The Fury had just explained how nothing touched by the outside world could enter the Furium. She could see the young girls looking at their leader, wondering what she would do.
The moment felt important, a hinge that would either open a door or close one forever.
Rhea offered her an out. “Of course, I will succumb to the standard process of any acolyte,” she said. “I am not above Wrath’s Law.”
She knew she’d spoken wisely when she saw relief flood the Fury’s eyes. She said, “You have already taken the mantle of Wrath when you cut your face, like me, which keeps you clean from this world. Follow me.”
She turned on her heel and entered the next room. Rhea followed shortly after, and she could hear the sounds of a new group of girls being brought in for cleaning, dyeing, and robing.
The area beyond the atrium was an enormous training yard. Full-fledged furia taught acolytes of various skill-levels the art of killing. By sword, by poison, by hand-to-hand combat—they were learning it all. In one corner, a large group were praying together, their voices chanting as one.
Rhea saw two girls who couldn’t be more than five name days old, doing battle with wooden poles. One of the girls dodged the other’s attack and then smashed the butt of her stick into the girl’s face. The young girl fell back, clutching her nose as blood ran between her fingertips. Tears sprung from her eyes, pouring down her cheeks.
The victor bent down to apologize, to help her up.
The Fury said, “Stop.”
The girl froze, her eyes wide with fear. “I hurt her,” she said.
“And she will hurt you one day. Would you have her shame you by showing weakness? Would you have her treat you like a suckling babe and not one of Wrath’s warriors?”
“No,” the girl said.
“Correct. Now leave her. She can pick up her own pieces. She will return stronger the next time.”
Already, the injured girl’s tears had dried up. She wiped the blood away on the red half of her cloak. Then she stood, a look of determination crossing her face. She grabbed her pole.
The two girls fought again, and this time the girl with the bloody nose got the better of her opponent, tripping her and throwing her down. Rhea was transfixed as she watched the process repeat over and over again, with the girls alternating victories. There were no more tears, though there was more blood drawn.
“You have done well with this place,” Rhea said.
The Fury bowed slightly, but said nothing.
“Tell me, where did the other two go? The other members of the Three. They took a girl with them. She was sinmarked. They stole half of the furia.” Rhea remembered Grey’s strength as he searched for his sister, Shae, his determination. He looked as though he would go to the ends of the world to find her. At first she’d hated him for leaving her to the mercy of the furia, but now, she silently thanked him. He’d set her free, allowed her to become what she’d become.
“Yes,” the Fury said. “They wanted to…understand the girl.”
Rhea frowned. “Understand?”
“Study. Observe. Discern what power her m
ark bestowed upon her.”
“They didn’t already know?”
She shook her head. “And neither, it seems, did the girl. Or so she claimed. Her mark is a mystery.”
Rhea noticed that she didn’t call it a sinmark. Just a mark. It was highly unusual for a woman of Wrath. “Yes, but it shouldn’t matter. If she is marked with sin, then she must be killed. Correct? That is what has been taught for decades.”
“Yes. It has,” the Fury said, but it wasn’t an answer.
“Then why isn’t Shae Arris dead?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Tell me,” Rhea growled. She grabbed the woman by the front of her robe. The Fury flinched. There it was—that fear. Though this woman was a trained warrior and could kill Rhea in any number of ways, she feared her now, like a dog beaten to within an inch of its life by its master.
“What do you know of the Western Oracle?” the Fury asked.
Rhea released her, letting out a breath. “Children told stories about her. She was a witch. A sorceress. Lover of demons and darkness. An outcast. She was burned at the stake.”
The Fury shook her head. “No, she was none of those things, save for an outcast and burned at the stake. The rest was a lie told by your great-great-great grandfather. She was no witch. She was once one of the Three. She was the very first Fury.”
Nineteen
The Western Kingdom, The Tangle
Roan Loren
“I think the sun rose from that direction,” Gareth said, pointing toward a part of the forest that was so dense they couldn’t see past the line of gnarled bushes. Then again, every part of the Tangle seemed to be getting thicker, fighting them every step of the way.
Gwendolyn squinted. “I’m certain it rose from there,” she said, gesturing the opposite direction.
Roan grimaced, plucking a thorn from his skin. Blood welled up from a pin-sized hole. Dozens of similar holes dotted his arms. “We need to climb a tree. It’s the only way.”