by Sohan Ahmad
The noble’s murky eyes lit up like fireflies. “Oh, you darling little thing, lift your head. No need to thank me for you are my second most treasured possession,” he said, pinching the boy’s cheeks.
Cyrus nearly toppled at the thought. Was it possible that Bale mistook him for another? Maybe, I can have a life here. “Master, please give me work, I’ve been idle for far too long.”
“You cannot know how long I have been waiting to hear those words,” Lucivius said, grinning his rat-toothed grin. “There is something special that I have been saving just for you, but first you need to regain your strength. Sit and share a bite. Afterward, I shall personally show you to your chores.”
So, they sat, sipping from cups of water as they chewed upon a medley of sweet grapes, candied figs, and chunks of cheese. So fresh! By the time Cyrus emptied his plate, his teeth stained yellow with bits of purple flesh trapped in between.
“Did his Holiness not feed you?” Lucivius asked in jest. “Slow down, dear boy. As long as I am your master, you shall have all you deserve. Now come, I have one more treat for you.” After departing the Betrayer’s den, they stopped at a familiar place. “Have you ever ridden in one before?” Lucivus asked, even though he knew the answer.
“No, Master,” Cyrus answered, staring at the mechanical cage. “What is it?” he asked.
“No need to be afraid, dear boy. Come closer,” Lucivius chuckled. “The Xenoans call it the Box Riser. Dreadful name, I know, but it is marvel,” he said, stepping onto the suspended platform.
Cyrus dared not take another step. The Cardinal always says that snakes belong on the ground.
“I assure, dear boy. It is as safe as safe can be.” Lucivius hopped and stomped, doing everything he could to rattle the cage. “You see?” But it remained still.
“Yes, Master,” Cyrus answered, though his feet still trembled. Once he was close enough, he leaped onto the platform, grabbing hold of the Betrayer’s arm. And with the push of a lever, it moved like magic, dropping from the sky like a speedy cloud. The boy’s legs wobbled as his eyes darted from side to side in awe.
“Do you like it?” Lucivius asked. To which, the boy nodded, his grip ever loosening from the Betrayer’s arm. “Then fortune smiles upon you, for the Xenoan who crafted it resides within these walls. I shall make arrangements for you to meet after you’ve completed your first chore.”
A short walk through the familiar gardens brought them to the stables just outside the gate where three cedar wagons awaited, stripped of their horses. “No doubt you recognize them, smart as you are. Journeying from the Cathedral has made them unfit for travel and they require a good cleaning, through and through,” Lucivius explained, pointing out the stable master. “Hibbert here will provide you with whatever you need. Isn’t that right, Hibbert?”
The horse keeper was a tall, burly man, but short with words and pleasantries. “Course, my lord,” he grumbled, lifting two pails of water and thick-bristled scrubbers.
“Excellent,” Lucivius said with his rat-toothed grin, “then I shall remove myself and leave you to it, my dear boy. Speak to Hibbert once you have finished, and he will guide you to your next chore. Ta-ta.”
Finally. Life feels normal again. Cyrus went to work with a renewed vigor, running his soaked brush through every inch of the wooden carriages. It took no time at all for clumps of roadside dirt to muddle the clear water in his bucket. Only one left and my leg feels much better. He swapped his polluted pail with its cleaner sister and approached the third carriage with a slight swagger in his step.
However, his glee would slowly melt. What is this stink? he pondered as a cloud of rancid air smothered his lungs. Cyrus opened the gold trimmed door with a tremor trembling through his hand. It’s not possible for such an odor to exist on its own, or so he believed. Further inspection revealed that the stench swam from within each crease of wood through the plush scarlet lining of blue satin pillows, but he would not be deterred.
The pale water reflected the nature of his work, growing thicker and redder with each passing breath. Did they leave a dead animal in here? He wondered, eventually requiring a third and fourth bucket to finish the job. Strange though, I smell something familiar, even within the horrible odor. The scent was far too faint to place. It’s gone. After just over an hour, the chore was done, and only the rotten stench remained, deep within his skin.
He wished dearly for a bath, but such luxuries would have to wait. “Go to the black boxes,” the stable master barked, “the Blind Builder has work.”
During his walk from The Climb’s red spire, he recalled a patch of small brick buildings with windows dressed in tar. Cyrus sought to ask for further details, but Hibbert had already vanished into his den of horses. How do I get there? Cyrus asked the silence, returning to a familiar plot of exotic petals. “Apologies for disturbing your work,” he said to one of the slaves who had smiled at him upon his arrival, “but can you please tell me where I can find the black boxes?”
The slave suddenly stiffened. “Forgive me, child,” he said, his warm smile cracking as he felt the hovering eyes of Darius’s bronze dogs from atop their wooden posts. “I grow slow in old age. Follow trail west of red tower,” he said with a finger that crookedly quivered. “Goddess bless you, child. Goddess bless you.”
He keeps glancing at the guards behind me. Cyrus noted. Did they do something to him? I should tell the master just to be safe. “Thank you,” the boy said, continuing west until he found them.
The black boxes were no higher than a poor man’s home. Each had one door with three locks and one square of glass, stained to reflect nothing from within. As Cyrus continued with his quickly healing limp, he found another old man stacking boards of shaved lumber in an open yard that lay within his path. “Excuse me, sir, I am looking for the Blind Builder. Can you help me?”
The man had as gray a beard as the boy had ever seen, with soot sprinkled across his tanned, white skin like spots of mold on rotting cheese. His back slouched forward as he squatted on hind legs, a hammer twitching up and down within his leather hided hands. “Who seeks me?” he asked, rising to his feet, still hunched like an ape with long, gangly arms. “I am the builder, but clearly not blind,” the old man said, turning to face the boy with a large scope strapped around his head. It swallowed one eye whole, magnifying it fivefold with glass as thick as the boards besides him, while the other lay limp and clouded.
Cyrus found himself staring for a moment. “Apologies.” Before he returned to sense. “I didn’t know you were him. My name is Cyrus. The horse master said you had work for me.”
“Of course, of course, you’re the Betrayer’s new boy. I am Grimmon Gineer, but most call me as you did,” he groaned.
“Grimmon, sir, how can I help?” Cyrus asked with what childlike innocence remained in him.
The Blind Builder would have smiled at the boy just then, if he could remember how. However, there was a task to be done, and Grimmon was of a singular mind. No time for pleasantries. “Of course, of course. Grab a saw. I mark, you cut.” Though he had only one good eye, it was as precise as a marksman’s arrow, drawing lines as straight and clear as straight and clear could be.
Amazing, Cyrus thought as he began working his serrated copper blade, slicing quickly to keep pace with the old man, but he was no match. This is a Xenoan engineer. By the time he finished one, Grimmon had moved to the tenth, and by the time he reached ten, Grimmon had already cut through three dozen.
“Too slow, boy Cyrus. Like this, like this,” the Blind Builder commented with a twitch in his cheek.
“Apologies, I’m going as fast as I can,” the young slave answered. “Grimmon, sir, what are we making exactly?” His mind too slow to stop his tongue from asking. Slaves shouldn’t think. I know, but I can’t stop.
“No, no, no,” the old man repeated. “Cyrus is a smart boy. Cyrus should already know. Builders don’t ask, builders build. Now, hurry, hurry. Bring that one and that one and that one.”
Cyrus nodded, carrying three of the pieces he had cut, each one carved like a piece of a puzzle. “Two last cuts before you scoop them out. Then slide smallest into biggest and . . .”
Just before he could complete his command, Darius arrived with one of his own. “Cyrus, stop what you are doing. The master wants you cleaned for tonight’s celebration. Come with me.”
The boy looked to the builder for approval. “Go, smart Cyrus,” Grimmon assured with a whisper. “Not smart to disobey him. The toy soldiers can finish your work.”
And so he did, wondering what wonder would come from the builder’s mechanical mind as Darius escorted him to one of the Betrayer’s baths where he would wash alone. “I don’t understand,” Cyrus said.
“Lord Mammon thinks you special, don’t question the reason,” the bronze dog barked.
“Apologies,” Cyrus said with lowered head as Darius waited outside. His tunic’s rough skin ground against the tender flesh of his seared chest as he slowly stripped free of his tattered rags. Rising steam tickled his naked body, luring him in. First, he dipped his toes to taste the water. So warm! Then, the rest of him entered, soaking every inch until the water touched his master’s branded. The soothing heat soon turned to a sharp sting, and he sprung to his feet.
“Hurry up, boy! You are not here to play,” Darius barked from just outside the wooden walls.
“Apologies,” Cyrus replied, clenching resolve into his skin. Sitting a second time, the pain was slightly duller. Think about everything else, he commanded himself, focusing only on the luxury he had never experienced, bathing as if for the first time. So, this is what Marcus feels like every day? he thought as the pain faded and the sun began to sink outside his windowless chamber.
“I am coming in,” Darius said, entering without a knock, carrying a fresh set of fabrics, one to dry and one to wear. “Lord Mammon selected these personally. Put them on once you are done and meet me outside.”
Mother, do you see me? The tunic was spun in scarlet silk, trimmed in thorns stitched together by blue leather, and the leggings were blue too, carved from cured cowhide. Do I look like one of them? Cyrus wondered, feeling grand and noble until he stepped out into the pale, yellow glow of the night sun’s light to see Darius’s glare. I must look silly to them.
The Devil’s Garden sparkled in the dark like a rainbow breed of fireflies. In the yard where he had first met the builder stood the entirety of the Betrayer’s flock of pets. The ones that wore chains gathered in a crowd staring up to those that wore bronze. They stood on a raised platform, nearly two feet off the ground, guarding a large, wood-crafted cross planted in the center. As Darius ushered the boy toward the front, the Betrayer’s voice called out from the shadow of bronze and scarlet, “Welcome, my guest of honor. Come, no need to be shy, marvel at what you helped build.”
Grimmon was nowhere to be seen, but Cyrus accepted the invitation, joining Lucivius onstage. So many people . . . “Thank you, Master,” he said as the corner of his eyes caught a glance of the slaves’ faces. What happened to their smiles?
The dwarfish stump of a lord slithered close and caressed the silk atop his shoulders. “How do they fit?”
Cyrus returned his gaze forward. “Perfectly, Master.”
Lucivius grinned his rat-toothed grin as his eyes narrowed flat. “Excellent!” Without warning, he tore scarlet silk from the boy’s arms as two bronze swords seized him from behind. “Now, the celebration can truly begin,” the Betrayer said with a cackle, shouting toward his guards, “bring her out.”
As the young slave stood restrained and helpless, a familiar odor clawed at his nostrils. That stink from the wagon? When he turned his head toward it, he saw the source of the stench that still haunted his fingers. Mother?
“How exciting it must be to see her once more,” Lucivius mocked before barking at his bronze dogs once more, “string the bitch up!” As they tethered her wrists to the wide ends of the wooden cross for all to see, Cyrus hardly recognized her.
“What have you done to her?” he yelled out. Isa’s once milky skin was painted a pale ghostly white with blotches of sloppy rouge on her cheeks as limbs dangled limp like a broken puppet.
The demon who lorded over the Devil’s Garden snickered and sneered at his flock of chained sheep as his message echoed within the cage of low stone walls. “Let this be a reminder to you filthy pieces of pig shit. This is what happens to those who think themselves too good for my leash.” Darius handed him a small mallet and a nail the size of a spike as he glared at the dead woman’s child. “Get to it, boy. The ropes won’t hold her there forever.”
“What do you . . . no, you can’t.” Cyrus cringed from the green of his eyes to the tips of his fingers. “Please don’t make me do this.”
Lucivius did not flinch, the back of his hand whipping across the boy’s face. “You dare disobey me?”
“I beg you,” Cyrus pleaded, tears pouring down the bony curves of his cheeks. “Please!”
The once charming rat lost his calm, placing a dagger’s tip along the white edge of the boy’s eye. “One more sound and I will tear it out. Another and I will take the second.”
Cyrus trembled, his pupils attempting to hide from the knife as if they could. What do I do? he screamed inside his head. What can I do? Until finally he clutched hammer in one hand and iron spike in the other. Whatever hope was left had fled the light of his eyes to hide in darkness. The violent tremble in his hands suddenly steadied as they began to move, guided by another will. Stop! What are you doing? he shouted to himself until a whisper trickled in his mind. Mother?
He was sure that he heard it. “Live.” The whisper was feint, yet soft and tender as her voice once was. “Keep on,” it told him. His life held more value than the protection of a corpse.
Moments later, he awoke from that dream where Isa still sang, returning instead to the nightmare where his empty hands swam in mother’s blood once more. The mallet lay stained atop the wooden deck, and the tiny iron spike lay buried in ankles, one crossed over the other. His mind spiraled into madness and his body numbed just before the lava in his belly erupted through his mouth, steaming as it touched the cold lumber. Cyrus collapsed as if the strings from his joints were severed, clawing and reaching for the hammer with what little strength remained. I’ll kill you, monster!
But it was too late. “Return this filthy thing to where it belongs.” Obedient as armored hounds were meant to be, Darius and Bracchis tossed Cyrus like spoiled fruit into the masses. “Men, drink and be merry.” He heard the Betrayer say, struggling to remain conscious against the rhythm of the demon’s decree. “Choose one, choose two, choose as many as you like. I certainly shall. So, to all, I wish a marvelous evening,” Lucivius cackled, dragging a helpless boy and girl toward his bed within the ruby spire.
For hours, beasts wore the faces of men, unleashing their savagery and lust upon the innocent. Those blessed with beauty were cursed, their screams echoing long into the death of starlight as the Cardinal’s bastard closed his eyes and ears. Please stop, I can’t take any more.
“Stay with us, Cyrus,” Z’hiri called out to him. She remained unscathed with another who helped her carry him into the safety of darkness. “Quickly, before they see. Pray the Dragon’s Star keeps the rest. We can do no more for them.”
The pits of hell ascended to scorch the earth in that square yard of grass and lumber. Only one other torch flickered from within the vast shadow of The Climb. “The smart boy is safe. Nothing more to see, Grimmon,” the Xenoan engineer convinced himself, unlatching the monoscope from his burdened eye. “Remember, you fool. Builders don’t ask, builders build.”
Chapter 14: The Blue Woman
A sweltering sun began its slow rise the following morning, attempting to cleanse the world of the Garden’s taint. Most still slumbered within the lingering cold from the prior evening, but not her. “Wake up, Cyrus. You’ve slept long enough,” the blue-haired crone scolded in the glimmer of candlelight. “There
is work we must do.”
He rubbed the crust from his eyes, remaining idle on his slab of stone bedding. “No, I will do nothing for that demon,” he replied, his throat seething with a dry rasp.
Z’hiri did not yell or shout. “We don’t do this for him,” she said in as somber a tone as she could muster.
For who then? Cyrus wondered, ceasing his tantrum. It doesn’t matter. I owe you more than I can say. They returned to the surface with a handful of others who seemed all too accustomed to the horror to which he would soon bear witness. Goddess! Slaves were strewn about the yard like broken toys, battered and spoiled with wounds festering in the sun.
They came across one young woman whose eyes were still open. Her clothes were torn to pieces as if dogs, both bronze and beast, had taken their turn. Skin that was once a dark olive was stained with spots of white that trailed from the corners of her mouth down to the center between her thighs. Cyrus reached out to help her, but the old easterner stopped him. “Don’t waste your time, boy,” she said, pointing her wrinkled finger to the flies that buzzed around the poor girl’s unblinking eyes. “Shame, her beauty was equal to any princess.”
Few were as ravaged, but she certainly was not the last. Z’hiri continued to lead them through The Climb until they reached the outskirts of the garden. “There. Hurry, Cyrus.” Katia stood dormant, her slender wrists tethered to a post, bleeding, her knees grazing the cool blades of grass beneath her. “Help me untie her,” the blue-haired crone cried, her words shaking with an unfamiliar tremble. “Quickly, there’s little time!”
As they carried the living corpse across the yard, Cyrus noticed others, free of flies. “What about them?” he asked with ragged breath.