The Eye of God (The Fall of Erelith)

by RJ Blain

  “Spill not the blood of life, lest thine own blood be spilled,” Blaise Spoke, trailing his fingers over the child’s skin to the sunken remains of his left eye. The wounds closed, glowing with a faint crimson light, leaving behind crusty scabs. It would leave a scar, but he didn’t dare help the human any more.

  He wouldn’t help the mortal further, even though he could restore the slave’s eye, if he really wanted to. Helping the boy who had tried to kill the golden-collared slave with Aurora’s eyes left a foul taste in his mouth.

  Blaise rose to his feet, shook his head, and left the slave for the military to deal with. The girl lay not far away, her golden hair turned brown from the rain. Sand encrusted her too-thin figure. Stooping down hurt, but he ignored the pain and slid his hands beneath her back and arms. To his relief, she didn’t weigh much. A trail of blood oozed down the side of her face. He clenched his teeth and carried her to where the children crowded near the portcullis.

  On the other side of it, two men in military coats gawked at him.

  “Open it and take them inside,” Blaise said, unable to quell the hope that one of the humans would argue with him.

  “We’re not to let anyone out or in,” one replied. Blaise fought against the urge to smile, dropping his gaze to the man’s yellow tassels.

  “He’s with the church,” someone said from the darkness. It took Blaise a moment to recognize the voice of another bishop. Frolar emerged through a doorway on the other side of the cell beyond the portcullis. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, nor dressed in anything other than white.”

  Blaise shifted the girl’s weight in his arms. “It is what it is, Brother. I doubt the Emperor will be pleased if those involved with the ruin of his games drowned in the rain.”

  “I’ll take responsibility for him if needed, as I am his senior in the church,” Frolar said.

  The two soldiers exchanged looks.

  “I’ll hold you to that, Bishop,” the lieutenant growled, but turned to the winch and gestured. While the other man was also marked with a yellow ribbon, he hurried to obey the silent order, and opened the portcullis.

  Blaise stepped through, ducking his head below the spikes and watching in case the soldier let go early. With a shake of his head at his folly, he lowered the girl onto one of the benches.

  “In!”

  At the lieutenant’s command, the slaves hurried into the cell, staring back at the pit.

  “There is one slave still alive out there you may wish to retrieve,” Blaise said, nodding in the direction of the pit. “He shouldn’t die, so long as you take care of him soon.”

  “Do it,” the older of the two lieutenants said. The younger man scowled, sighed, and sloshed through the sand and rain.

  “Good afternoon, Frolar,” Blaise greeted, dipping his head to the other bishop.

  “You’ve been busy I see. The Archbishop’s been looking for you all morning.”

  Blaise echoed the soldier’s sigh. “One does not refuse an invitation from the Emperor.”

  Frolar’s bushy brow arched to his graying hairline. “You have been busy.”

  “Later,” Blaise said with a wave of his hand. “Have you seen to the injured? Who’s on duty with you?”

  “No one. Bishop Nikal left to take word to the Archbishop. While we’d been told one of the church was here for the evening, I hadn’t thought it’d be a bishop, let alone you!”

  “Later, Frolar. We’re wasting time. There are injured to tend to.”

  And prayers to say for the dead, but he tried not to think too hard about that—the Gates were closed and they didn’t need his guidance. Not anymore.

  “Do you really believe anyone survived?” Frolar asked, stepping through the door to wait for him in the hall. Blaise prayed for patience and followed after the human.

  The two soldiers snickered.

  “Stay here if you want, but I’m going up top,” Blaise snapped.

  “Wait, Blaise,” Frolar said, snatching his elbow. Blaise stopped and stared at the man’s hand. “It’s too dangerous. Part of it is collapsing—some of it already has.”

  “And?” Blaise growled out, tempted to take a bite out of Frolar’s hand.

  “You’re too important to risk.”

  Blaise hissed, “I’m no more important than any other. Unlike me, they need help. If it is Alphege you’re worried about, I’ll accept whatever punishment he deems necessary, should it become a concern. I’ll take the upper tiers. I trust you can handle the first? It isn’t just those who were caught in the storm. Many were surely trampled as people left.”

  Frolar’s blue eyes seemed black in the shadows of the corridor. “Yes.”

  Turning to the soldiers, Blaise dipped his head in a nod to them. “Excuse us, gentlemen.”

  “What’s gotten into you, Blaise? The Archbishop is looking for you. I can handle this on my own. He’s ordered to see you immediately. You’ve never—”

  “My duty is here, Brother. The Archbishop will understand.”

  “You’re adamant for someone who hates the Arena,” Frolar muttered.

  Blaise lengthened his stride and the man had to jog to catch up with him. “I know.”

  “Why are you here dressed as a Citizen? The military said the clergyman here was hurt. You don’t look injured at all! What are you doing?”

  “Have I ever lied to you?” Blaise halted, and Frolar collided with him. Blaise turned and offered a smile to the aging human.

  “N-no. You haven’t.”

  He almost laughed from wondering what Frolar truly thought. While he hadn’t exactly lied, he wasn’t fully honest either. His nose didn’t tell him anything of use—and no matter how long he stared, the bishop revealed nothing more than a suspicious frown.

  “I forgot a basic rule and paid the price for it,” he admitted. “How was I to know the collar I was asked to check was warded? A painful misunderstanding, but nothing that will come between me and my duty.” Blaise grimaced and shook his head.

  How many times would he need to lower his head to mortals in one day? How many times would he embarrass himself to those who lived such short lives?

  “A collar, Blaise? Really?”

  “Really,” he replied. “Satisfied? The Emperor doesn’t want to answer to Alphege, so I was ‘invited’ to sit with him the entire day. The Emperor does not sit with a mere bishop, so I was dressed to his standards. I should be happy I got away with my cuff links.”

  “Blue and green don’t suit you,” Frolar replied. “You really aren’t hurt, are you? The Archbishop won’t be pleased with me if—”

  Blaise cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I’m fine.”

  “If you’re certain.”

  It took several deep breaths of smoky air that burned Blaise’s lungs before he could force what he hoped passed for a grateful smile.

  Frolar huffed out a laugh. “You never change. Oh, very well. It won’t be the last time I get scolded for letting you do as you want. Did you see what happened from where you were seated?”

  “Front row,” he replied, clearing his throat to stifle a cough. “Catsu and one of the slaves dueled and one of them lost control. Beyond that? All guesses.”

  The clap against his shoulder took him by surprise. Blaise blinked at the gray-haired man.

  “There’s nothing you could’ve done to stop it. Nothing anyone of us could. Still, we were lucky. I don’t envy their fates for interrupting the Emperor’s events today. We’ve much work to do, and many prayers for the dead to recite.”

  Blaise frowned and stared into Frolar’s eyes. The man tilted his head. Had the other bishop not noticed that Catsu had escaped with the slave? “Assuming they figure out who did what,” Blaise said with a shrug.

  “They’ll find out. One doesn’t deny the will of the Emperor.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  The tunnels branched out into four, with two of them leading upward in different directions. “Shout up if you need me,” Blais
e said with a farewell wave to Frolar. Before the man could reply, he hurried to where the ramp curved out of the underground prison complex.

  On the ground level, people staggered toward the gate, herded by gray-clad figures with their swords. The stench of their fear made Blaise sneeze.

  “You can’t go up there,” a deep voice rumbled, and a hand tapped his shoulder.

  Blaise lifted his sleeve without turning to expose the rose-shaped cuff buttons. “I’m with the church. Is there word on the number of injured?”

  “No. Wait but a moment. Gavrin! I’m taking this clergyman up top.”

  Someone shouted a reply.

  “This way,” the soldier said, gesturing to the ramp leading up to the next tier. “My apologies for not recognizing your affiliation. We don’t usually see anyone other than the white coats. Ah, pardon, Bishops. I don’t believe the major will refuse any aid from the church.”

  Without replying, Blaise followed the man up to the second tier. A few Citizens braved the rubble strewn over the walkways. The stench of fear, sweat, and death blasted his nose. Blaise lifted his sleeve to his face.

  “Major, sir!” the soldier called out. A young man with blond hair touched with hints of red tossed aside a chunk of blackened stone before standing. “This man claims he’s with the church and offers his aid.”

  Dark eyes bore into Blaise. “You’re not wearing a coat,” the man shouted up.

  “So I’m not, but I’m with the church all the same. Any injured?”

  The major frowned. “Those who survived walked away. We’re looking for others now.”

  Blaise nodded. “I can help with that.”

  Kneeling down, he touched the broken stones. “There are no secrets in a world watched by God,” he whispered.

  The voices of past Speakers mingled with the cries of those who lived. One by one, he tuned out the strong, healthy lives around him. The ghosts of the long-dead refused to be ignored, but as though respecting his wishes, they faded to mere whispers in his head. A faltering heartbeat echoed in his ear. He turned his head and pointed in the direction. “There is someone that way.”

  Blaise clambered over the rubble, and the stone groaned beneath his weight.

  “Careful!” the major barked.

  Letting out a huff didn’t ease Blaise’s disgust over the men who stayed off of the balconies in case it collapsed.

  It didn’t take him long to find a woman lying with her legs pinned beneath a slab of marble. The remnants of the Speech-wrought destruction manifested as the red and blue lights staining the stone. Blaise scratched his head and considered the problem of the rock; too much force, and he’d hurt or kill the woman, but if he didn’t use enough power, he wouldn’t be able to shift the debris off of her.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the soldiers. They stood still, watching him with ill-disguised curiosity. Wrinkling his nose, he turned back to the Citizen, lowering his hand to brush it against where the rock glowed.

  Warmth radiated from the stone. As he considered the words to Speak, the red and blue luminescence erupted beneath his hand and the marble shattered to a fine powder. One of her legs twisted at an unnatural angle. He muttered the words to stop her bleeding. The strength flowed out of him, and his muscles quivered.

  The woman groaned but didn’t open her eyes. Furrowing his brow, he brushed away the dust from her and felt for her pulse.

  “She’s alive,” he announced, easing his hands beneath her shoulders and knee. Taking several deep breaths, he gathered his strength and lifted her up.

  “Watch the stairs, they’ve been cracking. Help him! Don’t just stand there gawking, fools! You’ve seen Speech before,” the major barked.

  Three cadets rushed to obey, scrambling down to take the woman from him. He sighed out his relief as she was taken from him. The cadets strugged with the woman’s weight, and their faces paled to white as they stared at the blood covering her. Blaise turned back to the rubble, placed his hands against the stone once more, and listened for the injured among the dead and the echoes of the creators of the Arena.

  Too many cried out for salvation—too many lived among the wreckage of lightning and fire. It should’ve killed any in its path. He stood and worked his way over the debris, loose stones bouncing to the tier below.

  The storm rumbled overhead and its lightning stained the rain and stone red.

  Chapter 4

  Pain stabbed through Terin’s fingers and toes, rousing him from sleep. Something cold and wet splashed against his face. It trailed down his cheek and dripped from his jaw. His arms and legs swayed back and forth in a gentle motion.

  Someone held his legs behind his knees and kept him from moving. The air reeked of decay and sewage. Terin slammed his elbow against his captor. A man’s voice cried out. The grip on his legs loosened and Terin kicked out, his bare toes digging into flesh.

  He tore his nails against bare skin. A curse rewarded Terin’s efforts. His teeth closed on flesh, and the man holding him howled and released him.

  Terin landed in icy water with a splash. His hands and forearms submerged first, followed by his head. The rest of him plunged in, sinking into the sluggish current of the sewer. A hand snatched at Terin’s hair and yanked him above the surface. Shudders ran through him, and if it weren’t for the hold on him, he would’ve fallen.

  A bare arm slipped around his throat from behind and squeezed, but not so hard he couldn’t breathe. A flexing of muscles warned Terin that he’d choke if he dared to move.

  He gagged at the foul taste in his mouth. At first he feared he was blind, then a ripple spread out around him. The sheen of light on water illuminated the outline of sludge-slicked walls. The rancid odor of the sewers struck him hard, suffocating him until tears stung at his eyes and his vision blurred.

  “That was foolish.”

  With those few words, sound assaulted Terin’s ears, triggering a throb that threatened to shatter his skull into countless pieces. He struggled to pull away from his captor, but his body refused to acknowledge his will.

  “Don’t try anything else, boy. It’ll hurt, you’ll lose, and I’ll be angry. Just keep quiet and behave,” his captor said. “I beat you once, and I can do it again.”

  Terin tried to make sense of the man’s words, but he couldn’t remember the voice, nor could he remember why he was in the sewers in the first place.

  Terin’s master hadn’t ordered him to venture beneath the city. The route to the Citizen’s estate had followed the promenade fringing Upper Erelith City to the decaying steps carved into the cliffs leading to Lower Erelith City.

  He didn’t remember leaving his perch beneath the estate while waiting for night to fall.

  “Who…?” His question emerged as a croak.

  “Don’t recognize me? I suppose our introduction was brief.” The man laughed. “I am Catsu. I’ve you to thank for freeing me from the arena. The least I could do was bring you with me, slave.”

  Terin flinched. The memory of wind and sand battering at him roused his awareness of drying scabs, bruises that throbbed in time with the beat of his heart, and the sting of fresh cuts. He writhed and grabbed at the arm wrapped around his throat.

  “You should be grateful for the chance at freedom,” the convict muttered. “Up and walk!”

  He wasn’t aware of the moment when Catsu’s arm slipped from his throat and seized the back of his neck. With a warning squeeze, Terin was hauled to his feet and shoved forward through the sludge.

  “What’s your number?”

  Terin struggled to draw a breath to answer, and his collar flared around his throat, driving away the cold from his soaked clothes. “734152.”

  “And your name?”

  “734152.” The collar’s warmth remained, the promise of punishment strengthening to the brink of real pain.

  “I asked for your name,” Catsu growled out.

  “That is my name,” Terin whispered. His number was his identity, and the existence of h
is secret name belonged to his master and no one else. Fear warred with self-loathing until Terin longed for the collar to tire of him and wipe it all away in a wave of agony.

  “A born slave, then? Hah. I’ll find some use for you. Who was your master?”

  Terin opened his mouth to reply, but he hesitated. The collar cooled, but he knew it was poised to strike him if he dared to speak his master’s name. When the expectant silence grew unbearable, he whispered, “I can’t say.”

  “An order? Even more curious. You’re lucky I’m a kind master,” Catsu murmured, his quiet tone chilling Terin more than the sewer water. “Why were you in the Arena?”

  At Terin’s silence, the collar’s heat grew until his pained breath hissed through his teeth. He struggled to find words—any—that wouldn’t violate the orders his master had given him.

  Catsu’s blunt fingernails dug into his throat beneath the collar. “Answer me!”

  “I failed my master,” he whispered, cringing from anticipation of the pain from the collar. It didn’t materialize, but that didn’t stop his legs from quivering.

  “Is that all? Fool of a master you had, then, wasting a slave like you in the Arena. Want revenge? I can help you. Wealth? I can provide it. Tell me, slave. Just how valuable are you?”

  The man’s grip tightened. Then, the pressure eased and Terin gasped for air, stumbling when he was shoved forward.

  “Don’t think you can deny me, slave. I’ve felt your collar’s warmth. At least he knew a little of your worth. Your collar won’t allow you to do anything that will purposefully risk your life. All I have to do is tell you to obey or I’ll kill you, and you’ll have to obey, won’t you?”

  Terin trembled from more than the cold of the water soaking him. A hand struck him behind his ear.

  “Don’t make me ask twice,” Catsu warned.

  The collar’s punishment forced a yelp out of Terin. He jerked his head in a nod.