Alisiyad

by Sarah R. Suleski

  Light caught his eye, and he rolled his head to the right. A spot of fuzzy yellowish light was moving toward him, seeping out around long black bars . . . fingers, he realized as he stared. Someone was carrying some kind of light cupped in their hands. A glowing ball? No. It wasn’t round, it was shaped like a cone, maybe. He squinted, or thought about squinting anyway, and as it came closer he could see the soft glow illuminating the face of the man who carried it, another bald man in black robes. The light moved and shifted inside the cone, swirling like liquid. It was liquid. The cone was a cup.

  Oh fuck, he thought. More drugs.

  The man stopped next to the table and lifted the cup above his head. He spoke and as he did so the light in the room intensified. All through the room other Ricallyn had uncovered glowing cups of their own and held them up above their heads. The man next to Russ spoke and the others chanted a response to him. This continued for a moment or two more, then the man lowered his cup towards his lips. Russ watched with disgust as he sipped from it reverently, light filling his eyes and making them dance like Alisiya’s. The others mirrored his actions, drinking their light and opening their eyes to stare at their victim, light glowing on their faces and coating their lips.

  The man only drank a very little from his cup, then he stepped forward and reached one hand out toward Russ’s head. Russ cringed slowly, but the man took hold of his hair and lifted his head up, tilting it back and moving the cup toward his lips. Russ tried to twist his face away but couldn’t. He tried to clamp his mouth shut but couldn’t. The man shoved the rim of the cup against his mouth and he felt icy cold liquid slosh down into his throat. It tasted like milk frozen on fire. He choked, coughing some of it out. It ran down his chin and neck, prickling as it pooled in the hollow in his collarbone. Drinking it was like drowning, but the man kept coming at him, swallow after swallow, till he’d forced all the liquid down.

  He let go of Russ’s head and Russ fell back gasping, wanting to puke it all up but unable to even get a good breath. The room suddenly seemed brighter, and the silent people with their lights clutched in their hands came into sharper focus. The man with the now empty cup stepped back and another person came forward, holding out his liquid light, and Russ realized with sick dread that a line was forming. His hair was seized again and another cup was poured down his throat.

  They kept coming, men and women alike, all with their drink to drown him in. He thought he would burst, explode spitting and choking the milky fire out over the whole room, but still they came and still there was room inside him for cupful after burning cold cupful.

  His senses were no longer dull. He felt abuzz with energy and light, he could hear the faintest rustle of robes and the thudding of footsteps, each intake and outtake of breath nearby him. He felt his restraints digging into him and he could move again, as much as one could move clamped down to the table. He felt strong like he never had before, not even the headiest surge of adrenaline or kick of anger had ever made him feel that ready to smash anything and anyone that came in his way. If they didn’t have him clamped down, hell . . . oh hell could he kick their asses. Each one that came to him had a harder and harder time getting him to drink. He jerked his head away and spit the stuff back in their faces, adding curses and threats that they could understand without knowing English.

  This seemed to satisfy them. The procession stopped and the Ricallyn stayed back, watching him thrash at his restraints and yell at them. After a little while, Russ wore some of the edge off of his anger, and fell back again. He saw himself as he was, a blathering moron. This is stupid. He shook his head. You’re being stupid. They’re not gonna let you go. You’re not gonna kick their asses. You’re just gonna die, and it’s gonna hurt. He winced, every nerve ending wide awake and tingling. Oh boy, is it gonna hurt.

  Think, Russ. He lay still, trying to calm the surges of panic and energy that told him to thrash and scream. Think. You can get out. No I can’t, I’m not strong, not as a Key, I can’t just open anything on whim, and not these clamps. I can’t do this. Think. You have to. I can’t. I can’t, not like this.

  The Ricallyn began to chant again. He watched them walk in patterns around the room, revving up for their next dirty trick, he thought darkly. They lifted their arms to the dark, swaying as they echoed the words of their leader. He stood next to the altar, one hand to the dark, the other gripping Russ’s hair. Russ couldn’t shake him away without hurting his own neck, so he grudgingly endured having his hair pulled, even though it hurt his newly sensitive scalp like hell.

  The chanting stopped and the man let go of his hair, dropping his head back down to hit the stone altar with a smack. Russ tugged at his restraints but that did nothing other than rub his wrists and ankles a little rawer. The Ricallyn moved silently around the room now, seeming to float in their robes as they brushed by each other. Without the chanting it seemed even eerier, the swooshing of fabric the only noise besides Russ’s own panicked breathing. He was trying not to, but could hear the panting and knew it came from him.

  They all faced him again, now, watching him tremble on the altar like a half-dead fish giving its last pitiful flops. Their leader turned, in a graceful ripple of black, and faced Russ with his back to the Ricallyn. Russ could see every detail of him clearly even in the dark; he was an old man with bags under his eyes and thick tufts of wiry ear hair curling from each side of his otherwise bald head. He had all the expression of a corpse as he looked down at Russ, the light in his unblinking eyes the only sign of life.

  He finally moved after a long moment; his robes rustled, and Russ’s eyes skittered from his face to his hands. Big hands with skin stretched thinly over the bones, knobby knuckles and long tendons, blue veins thick on the backs of them. One moment they looked empty and the next they held a long pointed dagger, pointing downward toward Russ’s chest. He lowered it slowly, not to plunge it in but gently slice an opening. In his fever Russ didn’t know if he was imagining what was about to happen or watching it happen already; he saw the tip of the blade cutting a neat line down the middle of his chest and the blood beading out, popping free to slide down either ribcage.

  Then the pain caught up and he knew it wasn’t imagination. He heard screaming and knew it was him. The man didn’t seem to notice, unflinching as he stopped just above Russ’s stomach and drew back his knife methodically, pausing a brief moment to hover over Russ’s right pec, contemplating his next cut. He held the dagger as if it was a pen or a paintbrush, delicately, with the concentration of an artist.

  Russ didn’t think, he was only aware. Everything was at war in his heightened senses, the fear and pain screaming for attention while his eyes took in each movement of man and dagger with fascination. He didn’t want any of it, he didn’t want to see or feel what was going on. So he retreated again to pictures of what should be happening, what would be happening if only he could connect mind and body again; the manacles falling open, his fist striking up under the man’s jaw, shattering the old bones and driving the shards up into the brain. Free now, clawing for the dagger as it falls from the lifeless hand. Now rolling and tumbling off the altar to land painfully in a heap with the dead body on the ground. The fall hurts but it doesn’t matter because he has the knife now and is plunging it into the chest; that is all it is, A Chest, not someone’s chest, not anymore.

  The knife stuck and he pulled back forcefully, falling back and knocking his head on the side of the altar. He clutched the knife possessively to his own chest, looking out at the Ricallyn and only then realizing that he wasn’t imagining a victory for himself, he was sitting on the ground between altar and dead man and for a moment he didn’t understand how he was free. But then he remembered how he had pictured the manacles falling open, and they did, they opened just because he thought they already were. Not just because he wanted them to be, but because he believed them to be.

  The Ricallyn were as shocked as he was, backing away from him warily as the room suddenly buzzed with voices. Russ’
s chest heaved with frenzied breathing and he looked down to see blood coating him, not only his chest but his hands and arms and the fronts of his legs. For a moment his coherent thoughts, slowly returning, wondered stupidly if it was all coming from the cut on his chest. He put a hand to his chest gingerly. It had only been a very shallow cut, not intended to rip him open, just draw a line down the skin. No, all that blood was from the man, not him. He saw the man again, as if for the first time, lying before him.

  I just did that, that, I butchered that man, how did I do that? His thoughts echoed in his head as he stared at the shattered face and pulverized chest. His hands shook and he began to feel sick. It wasn’t me, it’s the . . . the drugs, I can’t do that. I, I don’t do that kind of thing. He pushed himself against the altar, hugging the knife unconsciously as he tried to steady himself. The smell of blood was so strong, so vivid, the most sickening thing he’d ever known, he could taste it on himself without opening his mouth. He tried to wipe it away with the back of his hand, but the back of his hand was bloody, and it smeared across his face. He choked, for a moment thinking he would barf. He opened his mouth and air came in short gasps. Breathe, Russ, breathe dammit. He felt the tip of the dagger pricking him and pulled it away. You fucking killed the bastard and he fucking deserved it so just shut the hell up!

  The voices of the Ricallyn had been on the outside of his consciousness as he came to terms with the realization, but now as he looked up again he could hear Alisiya’s unmistakable voice among the tumult. She stepped out from the crowd of skittish robes and he saw the anger burning in her eyes even as she fought to keep her face composed. Alisiya didn’t need any glowing drink to set fire in her eyes, they sparked white.

  “Stay back,” he growled, momentarily surprised by the vehemence in his voice. He still didn’t feel like this body, or this person in this body, was his or him. But he didn’t have time to mull it over. He pointed the dagger at Alisiya.

  Chapter 28 ~ Daughter of the Sun God

  Alisiya looked down at the remains of the Ricallyn priest, her expression inscrutable, then she looked again at Russ. A thin smile spread over her face. “Well, this is unfortunate,” she said. “You want to make things difficult, do you?”

  “Stay away,” Russ growled, turning the knife menacingly in his hand.

  She laughed. “You think you can hurt me?” She turned her back on him, pointedly, and spoke to a nervous Ricallyn at her elbow. The man looked none too pleased with the turn of events, and gestured toward Russ, the sleeve of his gray robe flapping in agitation.

  Russ thought, briefly, about stabbing Alisiya in the back, but ruled it out. The moment he made a move toward her one of the Ricallyn would warn her, or she would sense him, and he hadn’t forgotten the control she could wield over him.

  He wiped his forehead shakily with the back of one hand, feeling dizzy now. His senses were heightened by the drink he’d been given, but it was all too much for him — he wasn’t used to it and it confused him. He could feel his cuts and bruises stinging and throbbing and the pain was nearly overwhelming, but he fought to ignore it. He had to pay attention to what was going on around him, so they couldn’t get him again.

  Alisiya was still talking to the Ricallyn man; they were both gesturing now. He wished he knew what they were saying. Alisiya sounded annoyed . . . that was probably a good thing . . . wasn’t it?

  There was movement to his right, he swung the dagger towards it and saw a man draw back warily. Russ looked to his left, menacing the Ricallyn on that side of the room, wishing for more protection than the altar at his back. One little dagger would do nothing if they decided to attack him all at once.

  “Look what you’ve done now!” Alisiya’s voice brought her back to his attention. She stood closer now, eyes flashing down at him. “They refuse to continue with the ritual, you’ve ruined it and they are upset with me for bringing you here.”

  He met her gaze defiantly. “Am I supposed to be ashamed or something?”

  “You have ruined everything.” Alisiya trembled with anger. “I should have killed you long ago.”

  “What are you gonna do?” Russ asked, gripping the knife.

  “I’m not going to kill you right now, if that’s what you are asking,” Alisiya’s tone turned lofty. “I must convince the Ricallyn that you are still valuable to them, that you are still a gift they ought to be grateful for. We have discussed our little problem—” she glanced toward the man, who stood patiently now, watching and waiting “—and the Ricallyn wish to consult their leader before continuing.”

  “What?”

  “Are you dense? What am I saying, of course you are.” Alisiya sneered. “Get dressed, we are going upstairs, to the roof.”

  “I’m not doing anything until I know what you’re planning,” Russ replied evenly. He’d like nothing more than to have his clothes on again, but if it was an order from Alisiya . . . .

  Alisiya was trying to look composed, but Russ didn’t miss the agitated color of her eyes or the way she clenched her fists. She smiled, and said in a low voice, “I’m not planning anything, it is our delightful hosts who want us on the roof. They tell me they must summon Ricalli, and he will decide what to do with us.”

  “Us?” Russ echoed.

  Alisiya turned around abruptly and said something in Adayzjian. Russ lost sight of her then — she disappeared into the densely packed robes, and he was forced to switch his attention back to the Ricallyn who approached him warily. He saw that one of them held his clothes, the clothes Currun had assigned to him before they left for Varaneshe. He wondered if it was a trap, but let the woman come closer anyway. She put the clothes down on the floor and backed away. Russ almost laughed at them treating him like some wild, dangerous creature. But then he did laugh outright when he had to reach over the dead man to pick up his clothes. Russ Markson: Killer. It was just too funny.

  He dressed without taking his eyes off them, and they watched him in turn. It was a weird experience, but then weird was his new normal. Only a few Ricallyn had lingered to monitor him, the others were filtering out the dark room. Going up to the roof, no doubt. Russ was a little worried about what was to happen up there . . . and had half a mind to stay away. He had the dagger, after all, and the Ricallyn seemed to be a little afraid of him now (I’ll bet they regret giving me their little power drink now, don’t they? Ha!) so he didn’t have to just docilely go wherever they wanted him.

  He certainly didn’t want to be around when they summoned Ricalli.

  What to do? He finished dressing and slid the knife into his belt, feeling a little less jumpy now. He frowned at the waiting Ricallyn, wondering what they were expecting of him next. They simply stared back at him. Slowly, he stepped over the priest, one hand still on the dagger hilt. He didn’t want to wave it around and make them attack him, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let it out of his possession.

  Strangely, it seemed to him, the Ricallyn kept their distance, moving with him as he walked cautiously toward the door. Once he was out of the dark chamber he wanted to make a run for the main doors, but till then he moved very slowly. Breathing, rustling fabric, and the fall of footsteps were the only noises he heard, but they were magnified in his hearing to echo through the room.

  As he neared the doors he noticed that the Ricallyn were circling him; his back tingled with a nervous unguarded feeling. Surrounded, now what? He glanced around. He was in much better shape than he’d been on the altar, clamped down and naked with a knife digging into him, but ease was a long way off.

  The hope that he could make a run for the doors died when he saw the guards. Even if he managed to get away from the circle that had formed around him, his escort, he’d only be running straight into more of them. He muttered a curse under his breath in frustration, and turned as his circle turned. They were herding him.

  On second thought, maybe the roof won’t be so bad. He’d be outside, and perhaps there’d be some steps or a ladder down from the roof that
he could get to if he could shake the Ricallyn. If worse came to worse he could jump and take his chances hitting the ground, rather than being their sacrificial Key-boy. If he tried to break free now they’d just mob him and throw him in chains again, and he’d miss the chance of getting free up on the roof where there might be a place to go.

  So he continued walking, hedged in by the silent escort. They went up an endless seeming flight of steps, and then a door opened up into blindingly bright sunlight. It drove into Russ’s sensitive eyes and made him stumble back, lifting one arm to block the light. It would pass, though, it had to pass. Even drugged into a hyper alert state he would have to get acclimated to the light, or die. So he lowered his arm and squinted as they walked out onto the wide, flat roof of the Ricallyn temple.

  They were all gathered together up there like a flock of crows milling about. Alisiya stood apart from them, aloof and condescending. Apparently she wanted them to know how displeased she was with them for second guessing her — Russ saw fear gnawing at her. She should have listened to him, back in the alley, he thought with grim satisfaction. It’s not so easy controlling people when you don’t have a magical hold on them, is it?

  He joined her. He had no choice, he was herded over there by his ring of escorts, who dispersed now that they had him where they wanted him. Standing next to Alisiya, he looked over the roof at where it jutted out like an arrow over the city. He’d noticed it when he first came, from his vantagepoint below, and wondered now what exactly it was for. Couldn’t be anything good.

  There was another altar up on the roof, right before the protruding segment. He got a sinking feeling. Did “summoning Ricalli” involve the same sort of ritual as bleeding a Key did? Were they going to try getting him on that altar? Fat fucking chance.