It burns—it sizzles and spits and the pain swallows me like biting water. Like water lined with jagged shards of broken glass.
I grit my teeth.
I see Akane's cat-like eyes as the thing hisses at me. Presses into me and I feel my very blood boil with the heat. Burning me from the inside out.
The eyes squint—vanish—as hands slide around my throat. Her hands. Her words tickle my ears. Her lips. “They can't take you,” she hisses—words like venom. They bite me—they stab at my ears as I scream.
“I won't let them.”
And the world disappears.
As I'm safe again.
Cradled by the black.
16. A New Title
Akane.
She holds me. Stills me. Keeps me safe—cradles me in her strong embrace and I'm safe again. I'm home and Shanti's sleeping in the parlor—Chima down the hallway.
Nyx gone.
Gone—like they all are.
Dead.
My eyes snap open.
A high cream ceiling stares back at me.
Before a face covers it.
“You're alive!” Mismatched eyes—and for a moment, I think I'm staring up at Chima—until black hair slithers down his shoulders. It tickles my nose and I sneeze. “Guys! Another one's up!”
There's no reply, but he moves away. I struggle to sit up and the room moves with me.
“Eh…no one else is getting up…” he mutters, standing center between five evenly spaced mats. “The Branding always takes a lot out of people.” he says, his tone dejected as he slouches.
Across from me lies another body, prone upon a mat of brown. His right arm bleeds red and white as my own arm burns and I hiss suddenly. Wrenching my arm away as if that big smith was clutching it again—forcing that burning iron onto my skin. I bring my right forearm up, stare at the dragon symbol as it rises angrily upon my blackened skin, and force it away. I plant my hands upon the floor.
Where am I?
Near the sleeping body are large wooden screens that are closed tightly, but air filters through them. Hot air, and I turn as a dainty breeze hovers over me. Coming from tightly closed windows from my back. I see a forest of naked trees, gnarled wooden fingers reach through an inky night and I turn to look at the tall man standing centered in the cream room before my gaze falls to two other men also sleeping on dark brown mats. Their injured arms pulled straight with the brand clearly visible. Angry and red. Or pink with puss that mingles with oozing blood.
Outside the closed screens, I hear a kitchen—the clinking of pots and the tinking of pestles, the soft hiss of steaming water and the tasteless smell of rice. An odor of decay overpowers all as it suddenly siphons through the screen and my stomach churns noisily. Flipping as I pinch my nose.
“Where am I?”
It is a thought that pours from my mouth like vomit. I look to the man in the center of the room who cocks his head. Grins widely—all teeth. No gaps. “Castle Tsubame. You'd think the castellan would tell you that! But no…” and he shrugs. Stares at me from his higher position. Daring me to stand. “All of you are from Felicity, right? Well most of us were carted all the way from Blackstone!”
I spy a vacant mat from the corner of my eye, towards my right, before bringing my gaze back to him. “Blackstone?”
“The west.”
I look at him blankly—my mind reaching for home as I free my fingers from my nose and bring my hand over my mouth. A sharp “Oh.” escapes between my loosely closed fingers and I gag as the smell hits me. When I fan the stench away, mismatched eyes freezes. Widens his eyes and shakes his head.
His face is round—like a child's—and wide eyes seem taken aback. It's like the scent doesn't affect him as it becomes stronger. “Oh—there are countries! Huge places! Not something to simply 'oh' about!” He chuckles a bit, rocking on his heels. “Wow, you easterners really don't know a thing, do you? Subaki warned me my crew would be a bunch of slack jawed goodfor—,” he stops himself, moves his eyes away. “for—forget I said that.”
I ignore the insult.“Crew?”
He throws his head back. Laughs with a single explosive breath. Lowers his head and smirks. “What? You think you'd be here on vacation? Enjoying your silkyhouses and such? No, they've sworn you to the ranks of the eastwing scullions! At night—at least.” and he shrugs. “It's not a hard job, though. You avoid most of the castle staff—even the castellan…if you're lucky—which none of us are. Hence, the job of scullion,” the man shivers, twists up his nose. “but you'll get used to the crap—ex—excuse me, the refuse. You'll get used to it, and then…”
The wooden screen behind him slides open with a crash. Steam wafts in, followed by the heavy smell of sweat and spoiled meat scented with an overpowering rancid odor that bursts from the door—clearing the steam and sweat. The noxious strength of the odor makes me gag—brings tears to my eyes and threatens to make me heave. I cough as the sleeping men noisily roll over on their mats—throwing themselves up as they too cough. I hear a man vomit and bile rises in my throat. Burns me.
“…and then, it'll get worse.”
17. Recollections
The man with the mismatched eyes hurries us from our mats as the fumes thicken, wafting from the opened screens as footsteps clatter upon wood. Doors hiss open and the footsteps dissipate—people leaving. People I cannot see as their footsteps soften and a door slides shut with a snap. Mismatched eyes ushers us towards the scent, forcing us past the screens and into a mess of a kitchen.
Scuffed floors greet us. As does an odor that forces our hands to our noses and mouths. I think—I think I've never smelt something so noxious, but the scent reminds me of the rear end of a horse. Rancid yet fresh. Beastly—and my eyes rove over low tables centered in the middle of the large room. A pit of blackened sand lies near it, as on the opposite side of the tables, sit three large cauldrons with pink slime oozing slowly from their wide, circular, mouths. Utensils litter the tables; spilt cups, red liquid staining the wooden tables, along with used wooden pestles and iron cast pans slick with oil and old spices. On the far side of the wall, near the kitchen entrance, stand stone ovens that belch tiny black stones and I watch them spill upon the ground like rat droppings.
Mismatched eyes lines us up and ignores the smell. Like he's used to it. “You all can call me, Hue.” he stops when a smaller boy with dusty black hair brings his hands to his knees. “Want the smell to go away? Well, that's our job—you'll get used to it. The mess—the cooks don't care. So, it's better if you don't complain,” he comes to the boy. Pats his head and moves down the line towards the far wall at my right. A tall closet of dark wood sits there, the doors almost falling from their hinges when Hue throws them open. He pulls out buckets, rags, brooms—anything he can find—and simply throws them to the floor. Turns to us with a wide grin on his face—puffs out his chest as he nods his head. “and get to work!”
We scrub—we clean. Someone leaves the kitchen with Hue to fetch water, and brings back a huge tin tub of it. All sloshing around—wetting up the floor and half the boys with it. Hue is bright. A talker and one for quick learning as he talks non-stop to us. Teaching us protocol as we clean.
“Everyone is, 'sir', to us.” he says, matter-of-factly. “Don't bother learning names unless it's the higher staff. Don't bother looking for the Lord of Tsubame, because he's never here.”
I'm at one of the cauldrons when I almost heave—Hue looks into the pink mess and comes back with a green face—but not even that stops his words. “So, back to the staff—the castellan, the guy with the silly feather on his cap—” we grunt in unison as we heave the pink mess into an empty tin tub. “—watch out for him. Sahin. When some of you switch to day shift you'll run into him—eyes like a hawk, that one. He doesn't miss anything, so if you're given uniforms—make sure to keep them spotless!”
I'm only halfway listening—the brand upon my arm burning when I heave the empty cauldron back to its position between the other two. Hue dis
appears, only to reappear with a rag drenched in water. When I rub the brand angrily, he snatches my arm and places the rag upon it. Rolls his mismatched eyes when they meet mine.
“And your brands—make sure you keep them clean. No one wants to see a scullion with half an arm—infection will turn it black. Old Brutus will have to cut it off—the guy who branded you all. He's not so bad, though. 'Specially with cripples.” he snatches his hand away, his free hand taking mine and harshly pressing it to the rag. The sensation is cooling and I sigh. “Unless you want to be on his good side—then go ahead and let your brand get nasty.” Hue spits as a boy scrubbing the table near my heels snickers. I avert my eyes, pursing my lips as I rub at the rag.
The night goes on like this. Us clearing away this mess the cooks have created. In a way, the mindless scrubbing reminds me of Shanti's loom room. Reminds me of separating fabrics and sweeping to the sound of a daytime breeze.
My mind snaps back to the present.
She's gone.
“There's a nightwatchman that comes round after midnight, you can never predict when—he just comes. But when you hear me whistle—get ready to stand at attention. Like this,” and he jumps up to standing from the floor near the ovens. His hands black as he clenches them into fists at the sides of his moth eaten breeches. “and just stand still as I report. Sometimes he's a toad and he'll make us do latrine duty—but he's not always the same guy. They switch up—ya'll might see some of your brothers from Felicity one night. If you're lucky—which none of us are.” and he laughs at his own joke, bending down before he stuffs himself back into the black mouth of the oven.
I continue scrubbing the insides of the cauldrons, scratching at icky pink goop that has hardened to reddened slime. Dusty hair and I take turns bringing our rags to the large tin tub near the kitchen's black sand pit. Helping each other out as Hue drones on and on. When I dunk our used rags into the gray water of the tub, squeezing them and kneading out the dirt, Hue pauses from his spot at the stoves. Shoves himself from the blackened mouth, and hisses a high-pitched screech of a whistle with two blackened fingers rammed between his lips.
I knead the cloths once more, the water up to my wrists as I hear the quiet clack of heels upon the floor outside.
“Get up—get up!” Hue hisses at the room.
I stand—we all do—the rags clutched between my fingers as I turn towards the door and tense my body.
Near the stone ovens, a sliding wood door is ripped open. Air from the corridor blows at us, as an armored man with a black scarf tied high above his nose peers into the room with sharp yellow eyes.
“Report, scullions.” he almost sighs, leans upon the frame of the door as his eyes rove the room.
Hue approaches the watchman. Stands at attention. “Five scullions—four new joins from the Felicity conscripts, sir.” Hue takes in a sharp breath of air before relaxing his shoulders. “Anything new, Badger?”
Badger rolls yellow eyes as he pushes himself from the archway. “You see that one?” he asks. Points.
The finger is rammed at me.
“You ain't supposed to have shit in your hands when you're at attention, boy. Drop the rags.”
I bite my lip—let my fingers go. The rags fall as a single gray drop of water drips from my pinkie and onto the floor.
“What's your name?”
My eyes widen. “Kokoros, sir.” I blurt—heat rushing to my face. Tears.
“You're on the latrines, Kokoros. You and Hue.”
Hue lowers his shoulders—but nods curtly. “Sir.”
Badger returns his nod, “I'm checking them at dawn, Hue. You know how it goes. Make sure the runt gets in there deep.” a quick snicker—sharp teeth.
“Right, sir.”
And he slams the door in Hue's face. Hue sighs, throws me a look.
I think to apologize—but I'm frozen. How could I have known…?
“Let's get to it, then.” Hue calls as he slowly slides the door open, peeks his head out before beckoning me to come along.
I leave the rags there. The boys watch—their eyes wide. I hear someone curse as someone else holds back a laugh—a chuckle.
Hue and I enter a corridor of white walls, deep cherrywood panels bordering them as tall candelabras throw long shadows onto the dark wood. Hue takes a right, walking briskly, and I struggle to keep up with his long strides as he almost leaves me in the darkness of the corridor when he takes a sharp left—disappearing as the corridor stretches on and on before me. Straight into darkness. And—for a moment, the dim darkness taunts me. The shadows play like hawkish ghouls, and I'm seeing people. I'm seeing puppets play in their shadow world as I continue walking straight.
A hand reaches from the darkness from my left—grabs hold of my shoulder and I almost shriek.
But Hue shushes me with a sharp hiss of air. “It's this way, okay?” he tells me, mismatched eyes slightly worried. “Don't get lost—if you need me to slow down just say so.”
“I'm sorry.” The words come with tears and I feel frustrated as my throat threatens to close.
“Badger's a bitch.” Hue shrugs, attempts a smile but fails. “Damn, you cry like a girl, Kokoros. Don't let the others see you do that.”
And I bite my tongue. I swallow my tears. I think to be like Akane and the willows—strong, yet ever-changing. But my throat continues to constrict—to tighten. “I never wanted to be here.” I tell him.
“Did any of us?” and he turns on his heel, continues down this new corridor at a slower pace but stays in front of me as I dry my tears. As he stops at an oval shaped archway and calmly knocks upon an oaken door. Presses his ear to it. Slides it open and it creaks.
“Damn—we forgot cleaning stuff. Stay here, alright? I'll be right back—,” and he turns away from the door—but stops. Turns back to me. “Go in there in case Badger comes back. He'll think you're cleaning and might leave you alone.”
I nod. I move to the door and press it open as he walks away—faster now. Almost at a jog.
I open it—light pours from two high windows down a creamy wall. The latrine room is large, with two rows of holes stamped into slightly raised wooden bars sitting opposite each other. The light barely reaches the raised bars as shadows dance in the darkness at the light the opened door creates.
When I close the door—a shadow moves. A voice squeaks.
“You're—no one's supposed to be in here!” the voice struggles to deepen as I hear fabric shuffle and breeches rise up on a small silhouette. “I'll—I'll tell the nightwatchman! My friend's on tonight—and the latrines are supposed to be free—” the silhouette approaches me and I freeze.
“I-I'm the duty!” I whisper back as it approaches. “The nightwatchman picked me—so I've got to clean when my friend comes back!”
The figure freezes in the darkness. Shifts from his left foot to the other. “Do you…know me?”
I cock my head at the question. At the voice. “I don't know.” I answer truthfully. “I can't see you.”
A hear a neck pop as the man cracks his neck on one side. “Go into the moonlight.”
“Right here—just drop it—right here!” I hear Hue's voice and the figure stiffens.
“Who are you?”
“Kokoros.” I snap. “You go into the moonlight!”
“No—no you're not. I know you.”
I back away. Press my back upon the door as I think—as footsteps approach from farther down the hallway and Hue comes closer.
“I don't know you!”
“Truly…?”
Silence. The figure pauses. I hear a sharp intake of breath as Hue's footsteps come closer—ever closer.
“In this bitter world, who can declare the difference between love and hate?”
The softly sung whisper makes me gasp. I plant my hands against the door as the voice floods into my ears. One of neutral affinity. One that could be molded and shaped to flow along to the songs of any singer—no matter her pitch. No matter her tone. A voice that bo
wed for others. A voice that strengthened and consoled.
“Hana.” I hiss. “Is that you?”
18. Silent Moon
“Yes—yes, is that you—Naia?”
I hear Hue's footsteps pause as Hana approaches me.
Shadowed hands open and I'm speechless as she comes closer. As I catch the glint of her eyes in the darkness. “Thank the Fates—I thought—”
When Hue's at the door, I find myself walking towards her.
“Whose out there?” Hana's voice changes. Deepens. Becomes more authoritative as I freeze.
“S-scullion—,”
“Peace, please.”
“One of my guys is in there, sir. Could he—,”
“Pea—”
But I'm flying at her—racing. Wanting her embrace—wanting to slap her across the face like Lore should have done that night Hana took the last piece of clothing I owned.
She threw you to the streets. Forced this misfortune upon you.
Hana…Althea..
If I had never left the Orthella…
If I had stayed there—stayed home—maybe…Akane…Chima—maybe they wouldn't all be…
I crash into her and she goes tumbling to the floor. Skids to a stop as I crawl towards her—my head a mess. An ache splitting my forehead in two as the brand upon my arm burns. Fury races through my blood—it's a howl that's deafening as it screams through my ears. My fingers feel numb—they twitch as I bring myself over her. As I straddle her from the waist and she slaps me. Cracks me hard across the face.
“What are you doing?”
My eyes burn. “Do you know what I've suffered?” I shake my head erratically as her eyes attempt to stare into mine—worried.
They become transfixed. Blank brown eyes blink—slowly. Too slow as my face aches. “What? Will you beat me, Naia? For things I cannot control? Will you punish me? Bring down righteous wrath—am I to blame for what's befallen you? The world? Am I to blame because humanity is broken?”
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