What monsters they had become.
Of his mother, Maarkov could recall less with each passing day. What remained was the smell of sweet rolls, and the tickling sensation her hair would leave over his face. He could remember the sunlight passing through a wealth of black, wavy hair, and the ghost of a golden laugh.
More than anything, he remembered the darkness she left behind when she died. The scowling looks from their father, the speed of his wrath. Maaz had received the brunt of it, of course.
You killed your mother, you worthless little shit.
Maarkov had been eight, maybe nine, the day that he’d come in from the stables to find his father standing over a crying Maaz, knife in hand. Maaz had been barely out of swaddling clothes at the time, and huddled in the corner of their four-room house. Maarkov had clutched his brother close at night, after that. He made sure to take him everywhere he went. Some part of him thought that maybe their father would lose that darkness if he didn’t have to deal with Maaz, if he didn’t have to be reminded.
It’s an insult, you having her fucking eyes.
Maaz had never been allowed to look at their father. If he spoke, he was cuffed. If he did anything to draw more direct attention, it would be worse. Maarkov could remember living with a quivering fear in his belly during those years, a certainty that at any time, their father might take things too far.
In the end, it was the magic that gave him the excuse he’d wanted for so many years. Maarkov couldn’t remember what his brother had done, but when their father had realized that Maaz was a sorcerer, he was all too happy to pass summary judgment. He’d always known, of course, that the boy was cursed.
His father’s old arming sword hadn’t been sharp. The old bastard had taken more to drinking than caring for his weapon, had long since abandoned it in favor of the plow and bottle. It had been heavy in Maarkov’s hands, dusty from its time in the chest. Maarkov’s last memory of his father had been the bewildered look he’d given him over that rusty old sword, and the laughter as he’d started to cough up blood. He remembered the way Maaz had clutched to him as they stood and watched the old cur die.
He’s cursed, their father had said. One day you’ll see. You’ll fucking see.
Maarkov wondered what the old man would say, could he see them now. It disgusted him that his death-curse might prove prophetic, given they were the words of an ale-brained fool. Even today, so many long years past that fateful evening, the words echoed in his mind.
One day you’ll see.
An older woman appeared at the crest of the hill below, calling for the girls to come home. She scanned the horizon, and for a moment, Maarkov thought that she’d seen him. He sat still, watching as she ushered the children along, and disappeared over the hill. Had there been a slight hesitation as she’d turned, a tenseness to her shoulders when she’d departed?
It would be best if she packed up everyone she loved and left the village forever.
Maarkov held his sword to the light, and ran his thumb along its edge. It cut into his finger, though his black blood didn’t rise to the surface. If the sword had a thirst for blood, though, it wouldn’t have long to wait. The blade had been made to kill, and Maarkov made sure it was always ready to fulfill its purpose.
He wondered if the people below would thank him for his preparations, had they known. A sharp blade was important, after all—it made the kills quicker, less painful. Compared with the mindless rage of the strega, Maarkov’s Hassani blade was merciful.
A terrible mercy, Maarkov thought.
He laid the sword across his knees, and let himself be hypnotized by the waving grasses. Nightfall would bring the last of Maaz’s preparations to see this journey to its end. Maarkov was anxious to have done with this business, and be away from the Sevenlands, the Conclave, and anything having to do with his brother’s mad scheming. He ran his hand over his bald pate, and wondered what his mother would think, could she see him now. Would she look on in horror while Maaz performed his rituals? Maarkov wished he could summon the sight of that in his mind, but he couldn’t even remember his mother’s face.
It was his father’s visage that came to mind—that bewildered, scornful look. Maarkov found those words ringing through his head once again. He tried to silence them with the wind, and the waving grasses, but they would not go away.
One day you’ll see.
***
Jerrantis was abuzz with beauty. It boasted three markets near the harbor, each packed with hawkers crying everything from Farra-Jerra’s finest bows to the real lost treasure of Tirrin. Bethany used the copper marks she’d earned to purchase some sweets while D’Jenn and Allen saw to the provisioning. Dormael went to pick up their horses, and Shawna watched over Bethany.
The city was full of movement. Everywhere Dormael looked he saw windmills tied with colorful streamers. The wind was a constant in Jerrantis, and the Farra-Jerrans took advantage. It gave the city a sense of wonder, as if the buildings themselves were alive.
Farra-Jerrans preferred traditional artwork, with stylized knots the eye could barely follow, or depictions of heroes and monsters that favored style over realism. Woodcarvings were abundant, and every building in the city boasted a unique design over its archway. Some of the carvings were so detailed that passersby would stop to admire them.
Color was everywhere in Jerrantis. Murals decorated every surface flat enough to accommodate them, showing depictions of great battles, or the faces of the gods. Dormael saw one painting that stretched across five different walls, only viewable as a single piece when one stood at a distance.
Farra-Jerrans themselves were a distinctive lot. They decorated their skin much like their buildings, with twisting, stylized tattoos that snaked all over their bodies. Jerrans were known to spend years under the hammer and needle, adding to tattoos that told a story, or contained some greater significance to the wearer.
Returning from horse duty, Dormael smiled to find Bethany getting ribbons woven into her hair by a girl selling them for three copper marks. Jerran women had a custom of weaving ribbons and jewelry into their hair. There was a popular fable about a Jerran woman who lost the love of her life because she spent too long getting her hair just right. He had just finished telling Bethany the story when the rest of their friends appeared.
“We need to get into the hills tonight,” D’Jenn said. He scowled at the afternoon sun. “We’ve been here too long already.”
Shawna grimaced. “I was hoping to get a bath tonight. I’m still covered in the smell of that swamp.”
“Jerrantis is one of three major ports along the river Ishamael,” D’Jenn said. “Victus will send someone here, if he hasn’t already.”
“Jarek was headed north when he found us,” Dormael said. “We’ve still got time before he starts looking in earnest.”
“He also said there were others looking, and there’s no way to know where they went,” D’Jenn replied. “Time is of the essence. If we’re discovered in the city, it will complicate things.”
“Complicate things?” Allen asked.
“The local authorities are likely to get involved,” Dormael said. “Also, if we start tossing around magic inside the city walls, pigeons will fly on the next breeze, and all the Sevenlands will know what happened. Best to meet them in the countryside, where we can deal with them without eyes looking on.”
“So much for cleanliness,” Shawna sighed. “I suppose I understand the necessity, anyway. Still—we should all bathe when we get the chance.”
“Speak for yourself,” Allen said. “My body is incapable of getting dirty. There’s so much greatness coming off me that it keeps the dirt from sticking.”
“That’s not greatness, dear,” Shawna said, giving him a pat on the cheek, “that’s sweat. It’s making you smell.”
“We’ve more important things to worry about just now,” D’Jenn said. “Orm is just over the horizon, and we need to get there before Victus sends his own people to poke through the ruins.”
“I put nothing past him,” D’Jenn said. “He’s shrewd, dangerous. I’m going to operate under the assumption that he’s got a plan in place, even if he doesn’t.”
“Not to mention the vilth,” Dormael added. “He’s still out there somewhere.”
“Exactly,” D’Jenn said. “So, we ride. We’ve got a cursed temple to find.”
As the city faded behind them, Dormael turned to get one last look at it. The eye-drawing storm of color and movement drew a sharp contrast to the sight of the farmland around it. Jerrantis was like a clutch of flowers in a farmer’s pasture. Sighing, he turned back to the east, and the grasslands that stretched to the horizon.
When darkness fell over the sky, Dormael sought his blankets early. He was still tired from his exploits on the river, and having dry land under his feet was a good excuse to sleep. There was a stillness to the hills that drew him into a trance, even with his friends laughing around the fire.
As his eyes fluttered closed, the stars beckoned, and he fancied he was floating up to meet them.
***
“It’s time, Maarkov.”
He’d been dreading those words for the entirety of the day. Night had fallen, and with it, the fate of his pet family. Darkness crouched over the hills, smothering the sky. The wind brought him the stink of the assembled strega.
“An entire village, Maaz?” He couldn’t stop himself from saying it. “You’ve never gone this far before.”
Maaz sighed, and Maarkov turned to look at him. His hood was thrown back, revealing the scars he’d cut into his hairless scalp. They wove a wicked pattern over his skin, making him look alien in the moonlight. His eyes burned with obsession, and regarded Maarkov with a marriage of pity and disgust.
“We are closer to the realization of our plans than ever before,” Maaz said. “The preparation of decades, Maarkov, and you want to start blubbering about the sanctity of life now? Your hands are drenched in blood, Maarkov. A family, a homestead, a bloody village—who will weep when they’re gone? You?”
“I grow weary of this.”
“Weary, are you?” Maaz said. Mocking laughter hissed from his mouth. “Is your stomach turning at all the carnage, Maarkov? Does your heart cry out for redemption? Very well—I’ll stop. I’ll travel to the nearest temple and open my heart to the judgment of the gods.”
“Fuck yourself, Maaz.” Maarkov was seized with such anger. He was surprised to hear his voice shaking. “Why have you done this to me? Why have you dragged me through the years with you? To stand witness to all this? This parade of slaughter? Why?”
“You agreed to this, brother, do not forget,” Maaz snapped. “I warned you of where the path may lead, and you came trotting right along. Don’t act as if I have done something to you. You’re just lying to yourself.”
“You said we might have to kill, not this.”
“We’re speaking of killing, you fool.”
“This isn’t killing, Maaz.”
“Isn’t killing?” Maaz laughed. “What, then, would you call it?”
“It’s more like—”
“Go on.”
“—it’s like—”
“What? What is it like, Maarkov?”
“It’s like reaping,” he said, turning to look in the direction of the village. “You’re just taking, Maaz. The mothers, the strega, this thing you’re chasing—what the fuck does it all mean? Why is the plan worth this? This?!”
Maaz paused for a moment, and swept his hand at the village lights in the distance.
“Why do they deserve your sympathy, Maarkov? Why do they warrant some special consideration? Thousands of them die every day, maybe millions. They can die of drinking from the wrong stream, they can die of fucking the wrong whore. Why should my heart bleed over these few? Why should it bleed over any of them?” Maaz said.
“I don’t—”
“They’re worms, Maarkov!” Maaz hissed, turning on Maarkov in his anger. “Beasts! Look at them! Wallowing down there in their own filth. They deserve to be taken, to be reaped. They are nothing.”
“And what are we, then, if not beasts?”
“We’re better,” Maaz said. “That’s why I cut the Secrets into your skin, that’s why I did this to you. To make you better. It is much too late to turn back.”
Maarkov grabbed his brother by the front of his robes, and pulled him in close.
“When you cut me, Maaz, when you scarred me for the first time, do you remember what you said to me?”
Maaz stared back at him, but clamped his mouth shut.
“Do you remember?” Maarkov growled.
“Yes,” Maaz said. “I remember.”
“And what was it?”
“I said that I could finally repay you.”
“But you didn’t repay me, Maaz,” Maarkov said through his teeth. “Instead, you used me. You used me to kill farmers. You used me to kill women—to kill children. Entire families, Maaz. Where is my payment?”
“Women, children,” Maaz said, sneering in Maarkov’s face. “Worms.”
“I protected you.”
“Maarkov, let me go before—”
“I protected you!”
He hadn’t realized that he’d shoved his brother to the ground until he was standing over him, fists clenched. He wanted to fall upon Maaz and beat him until he couldn’t move, to pound his face until he no longer recognized the misshapen lump beneath his fists. They paused for a moment, staring at each other in the moonlight. Maarkov knew the secret of killing his brother, he knew how to get it done. He could do it, had he the will.
That, and a boat to get back to the east.
In killing his brother, though, he would doom himself to something much worse than death.
“Go on down there,” Maarkov said. “Go reap your spoils. Revel in your little rituals, I don’t care anymore. If you need my sword in a real fight, maybe I’ll come. But this? I won’t be doing this anymore.”
Maarkov turned to walk away, heading once again for his outcropping.
“You cannot leave me, brother,” Maaz said. “You must eat.”
Maarkov paused, and looked over his shoulder. Maaz had yet to gather himself, and regarded Maarkov with a confused look from his seat on the grass. The strega stood nearby, motionless as a group of fence posts.
“Send one of your pets to fetch me when it’s time,” Maarkov said. Turning, he strode into the night, leaving his brother and the group of corpses behind him. Maaz said nothing to his back, and when Maarkov chanced a look over his shoulder, he was gone. The strega had followed him, leaving the hillside as mum as the wind.
It was a short time later when he heard the Hunter’s howl, and the screams began to echo over the hills.
***
“There is something significant over the horizon.”
Dormael started at the sound of the voice. Only moments before, he’d been lying in his blankets, staring up at the stars. He put his hands to his chest, feeling along his torso. He stood on windswept hills under a roiling gray sky—a place he had seen before. There were no ripples of vertigo this time, just the silent storm above, and the wind below.
Tamasis stood on the crest of a nearby hill, looking off to what Dormael thought was the east.
“I can feel it there,” he said. “It is like a wound.”
“A wound?” Dormael asked, turning to look at him.
“Yes,” Tamasis said, still staring into the distance. Dormael waited, but Tamasis didn’t elaborate.
“Care to explain what you mean?”
“You do not have the vocabulary to describe the concepts at work.”
Gods, Dormael thought. Days back he could barely speak, now there aren’t enough words.
“It is not the same,” Tamasis said. “Your use of language is unique to you. I have learned this through your memories, from listening to the myriad conversations with others of your kind. Even th
ose closest to you do not use the same idioms, the same tonality, the same—”
“I could be dreaming of naked women right now,” Dormael said.
Tamasis turned to him and smiled. “Ah, of course. If you wish, I will attempt to convey my meaning, though it will require a certain bastardization of your language.”
“You already know what I want,” Dormael said, irritated for the hundredth time that the thing could read his thoughts.
“Yes, but I also know that this method of communication is more comfortable for you.”
Dormael sighed, feeling sheepish for his anger.
“Oh. Alright, then. Tell me.”
Tamasis turned to gaze into the distance.
“There are forces that move beyond your comprehension,” he said. “You are pinned to your existence in a way that dooms you to suffer the limits of your sight. Just as the fish cannot conceive of a cloud, so your kind cannot conceive of the undercurrents of reality.”
“The undercurrents of reality?” Dormael said.
“As I said before, I am using words that do not correlate with the concepts I am trying to convey. I am attempting to describe the nature of clouds to a fish. Do you understand?”
“Aye, I understand what you’re trying to say,” Dormael grumbled. A fish, indeed.
“Good,” Tamasis said, smiling as he gazed to the east. “Everything that exists moves to a rhythm. It has a song, much like your interaction with magic.”
“A song?”
“It is not something you could hear,” Tamasis said, anticipating his next question. “It is not, in the strictest sense of the word, a song as you are imagining it. It is more like a pattern, or perhaps, a grand sense of order. All things that exist seek some type of equilibrium. Numbers repeat, and repeat again. Small things join with larger things, which join with yet larger things, and form ever greater complexity. Even you are only a single link in that chain. You are made of small things, and function as a piece of a greater whole.”
“I suppose I can see what you mean,” Dormael said. “I’m made of meat, bones, organs. Also, I’m part of a family.”
“That pattern repeats itself in ways you cannot imagine,” Tamasis said. “Down and down into eternity. Even I, though I am far beyond what your kind can understand, am only a piece of a greater whole.” His eyes grew dark, and Dormael could have sworn that the clouds roiled with more violence. “I was sundered. Divided.”
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 107