by Adi Rule
The strange thing is how unafraid the guards are. Here they have a redwing, an ancient creature of evil and destruction, in captivity, and there are only two of them? As I look at their expressionless faces and spiritless movements, I sense an air of mundanity about the whole thing. According to legend, I want nothing more than the death of every human being in Caldaras, and I have the supernatural power to do it. Don’t they care? Shouldn’t they be terrified?
Not that I’m feeling very supernatural right now. I am hot and sticky and nervous. I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep my jaw from shaking.
The bearded guard says, “All right, then, off with her clothes.”
“Now, wait a minute—” I start, but the hollow-eyed guard already has her bony fingers on the buttons of my green gardener’s jumpsuit.
I can’t believe I was ever enthralled by human interaction, ever wanted someone to touch me. Human interaction is terrible. I elbow the bony fingers off, and the bearded guard says, “Ah, don’t rip your suit!”
They’re planning to—to I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about it, and all he can say is don’t rip your suit? Does that mean the priests would be angry if they knew what these two guards are up to?
The bearded guard goes to a low shelf and retrieves a nasty-looking stritch whip. Sweat runs in rivulets down my temples now, but I don’t move.
The hollow-eyed guard puts her hands on her hips. “You want a lash across the face, miss?” she says. “Stritches are big birds. You know what a whip can do to a little thing like you? Slice your nose right off your face, or pop an eye out of its socket.”
“I’m not little,” I say, but the guard just puts a finger in her mouth and makes a pop! sound.
The bearded guard looks askance at her. “Rasus, what kind of mind do you have? Stop being creepy.” He turns to me. “That said, miss, I will ruin your face if you don’t cooperate.”
My throat tightens. Cruelty is much creepier wrapped in politeness. I edge away from the bearded guard into the shadows between candles.
“We need you to remove that uniform, miss,” the bearded guard says. “Just the top bit is fine.”
“No.” My hand flies to the topmost button of the slit that runs down one side of the jumpsuit’s front. I take another step back.
The hollow-eyed guard sighs and gives the other one a weary glance. “I’ll give her the choker.” The bearded guard pauses, but then nods, candlelight flickering in his eyes.
The choker is not creatively named. My collar is designed with a clever spring and lever mechanism that someone so inclined can use to apply and relieve pressure to my throat. The hollow-eyed guard holds the trigger, leaning casually against the blackened stone wall as though she has better things to do.
She only has to squeeze once. The shadowy dungeon becomes a haze of painful red sparks dancing before my eyes, and I know I would rather remove the jumpsuit than get choked again.
I don’t give the bearded guard the satisfaction of undoing my buttons himself. I slide my arms out of the sleeves and let the top half of the suit fall. I know I should feel shy—I know about modesty and nakedness—but truthfully, nothing feels as shocking or invasive to me as simply being seen, acknowledged, clothes or not. Even now, with half the jumpsuit around my waist, what bothers me most is that these two guards know I exist.
“Turn around,” the bearded guard says, businesslike. Hesitantly, I turn. I feel him approach from behind, hear the stritch whip dragging on the gritty floor behind me. Then he pauses. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “Unless I really don’t get it.”
“What’s the matter?” the other guard asks. I try to turn back as she crosses to us, but the bearded guard pushes me back in place.
The hollow-eyed guard runs her hand down my back. She grabs a fat candle off the wall and brings it closer, illuminating my thousand scars. “What in wet hell is this?” she says.
Don’t these people attend Temple? Do they know anything?
“These scars are old,” the bearded guard says. “Look, they’re all healed up.”
“Damn it all.” The hollow-eyed guard traces the ridges on my back with her finger.
“The problem with this organization—and I’ve been saying this for years—” the bearded guard starts.
“I know, I know,” the hollow-eyed guard jumps in. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“A lack of communication,” the bearded guard says.
“Would it kill them, I mean would it kill them to keep track of these things?” The hollow-eyed guard sighs heavily. “I was eating my evening meal, you know.” She moves away from me, and I turn around, the heavy chain swinging awkwardly.
“I know,” the bearded guard says, then looks at me. “All right, get dressed. Hurry now. The Onyx Staff wants to see you.”
Well, I think as I start to do up my buttons, this may have been the oddest torture session ever to take place in the Temple of Rasus.
* * *
The fearsome high priest known as the Onyx Staff is probably the last person in Caldaras City most people would expect to find reading aloud from Merry Mother May’s Big Book of Fairy Stories for Well-Behaved Children. But I am harder to surprise than most people. I don’t even raise an eyebrow when he starts in on “The Tale of the Blind Miller” as we stand before a group of twenty or so priests of varying rank in an almost oppressively warm candlelit room.
Not that the Onyx Staff would have made a good First School teacher. There is no comfort in his deep voice as he reads to the gathering. “But the Miller,” he intones, “though he could not see the two men, was not fooled by their disguises, for he heard the likeness of their voices and knew them for what they were.” He gives me a hard stare clearly meant to be meaningful. From his perch on a high, wooden chair at one end of the small room, the Onyx Staff reminds me of an illustration of the wild raptors on the cliffs of Drush, their white feathers smoothed against the wind, their beaks dulled by the gritty air.
For all the stairs the guards and I climbed, we must be somewhere near the top of the Temple, but the room’s one meager, brown window offers little insight into the world outside. The priests, their faces obscured by bandannas, are quiet. I don’t look at them, these people who have nothing better to do today than watch this nonsense. Instead, I keep my eyes focused on the face of the Onyx Staff, his white hair shining in the gleam of the small window. The light does little to soften his cruel edges.
I stand at the other end of the room with my wrists chained to the floor. Indistinct shapes crowd the room’s shadows, spiky iron devices and asymmetrical structures I don’t really want to think about. Behind me, the wall is carved with a relief of Rasus, the many-handed sun. “Are you familiar with the story of the blind miller, Beloved?” the Onyx Staff asks.
I clench my fingers. The iron cuffs are starting to chafe. “Yes, Your Benevolence.” My voice is muffled by the still, hot air of this cramped room. “My father read me fairy tales just like everyone else’s parents did. And he did the voices much better than you, although I’m certainly willing to hear your Harko the Happy Bat if you’d like another shot.”
Someone snickers, but quickly stifles it. Maybe some of them will feel bad for me. Hey, remember that girl? She was feisty, wasn’t she? I mean, unspeakably evil, yes, but haven’t you always wanted to give the high priest a bit of lip?
The Onyx Staff continues to stare at me with all the warmth of a dead maggot. “The miller in this story discovers the secret the merchant and the tailor are hiding,” he says. “What is that secret, Beloved?”
“I plead silence, Your Benevolence,” I say, “so that I might not spoil the ending for these good priests.”
Scattered laughter bubbles from underneath a few bandannas. Nervous eyes glint in the gloom. Are the faithful starting to wonder if the Onyx Staff will raise the actual onyx staff he holds in his right hand and bash my head in with it before a verdict can be reac
hed?
But he doesn’t. Instead, he gives us all his sourest frown and says, “I do not accept your plea of silence in this instance, Beloved, and if you want to have any hope of convincing the Temple of your innocence, I’d advise you to answer all questions simply and truthfully.”
My lungs expand, stretching my skin tight. The scars on my back seem to writhe like living things trying to burn themselves off my body. Convincing the Temple of your innocence. It’s possible, then. Maybe I’ll make it out of here with everyone in one piece after all.
“Then the simple truth,” I say, “is that I have not been accused of a crime.”
Two or three priests mutter in protest. The Onyx Staff leans forward into the light from the dirty window. “I will repeat my question: What is the secret of the merchant and the tailor?”
I grow weary of this game. Everyone knows this story. “They are twins.”
“Twins?” He arches a feathery brow. “And why should that be kept secret?”
I snort in derision. “For a high priest, you are awfully unfamiliar with mythology.” One of the priests in black lashes my head with a stritch whip I didn’t know was there, slicing my ear. Warm blood oozes under my hair. I can’t lift a hand to rub it, and its tickling bothers me more than the pain.
“Pardon me,” the Onyx Staff says lightly. “I didn’t catch that.”
You don’t have to enjoy this, you wicked old beetle. I don’t say it aloud. Instead, “The merchant and the tailor are not human twins, and so do not bear the mark of a priest on their foreheads. They are the offspring of a human being and an Other.”
“Ah, fairy tales,” he says to the others. “Children’s stories. Isn’t that what these are, Beloved?” He holds the storybook up as the group murmurs hesitant assent. “Drivel with no place in a court of law.”
This isn’t a court of law. For one thing, there is no judge, jury, or scrivener. There is no list of charges signed by an officer of the Commandant. There is only the Onyx Staff.
The high priest lets the storybook fall to the floor with a thud. “Yes, as children, we all heard the old stories of Other princes and princesses, and as adults, we abandoned them. After all, this is the modern age, one of machines and locomotion and equality. Surely we have outgrown fairy tales. Yet…”
At his pause, the priests shuffle their feet nervously.
“Yet,” the Onyx Staff continues, “to this day, twins are marked with a priest’s razor so that we may know them as human and good.” He turns to me. “Beloved, what is a redwing?”
“It is a type of flower,” I say, “that can cure forty-seven different ailments.”
My answer is technically true, but the priest in black flicks his stritch whip again anyway, now across my back. The crack is more impressive than the injury this time, but I don’t want to press my luck further. Next time it could be my eyes.
“You are absolutely right to scorn such a question, my dear. I doubt these learned people need such a thing explained to them.” The Onyx Staff takes a step, his white robes catching patches of brown light. “Of course, everyone knows redwings do not exist. The beings known as Others have not lived in Caldaras for a thousand years, isn’t that right?” He spreads his arms and smiles at the gathering. “In any case, surely no one who gave birth to a creature as monstrous as a redwing would allow it to live.”
“Surely not,” I say darkly.
“But,” the Onyx Staff goes on, his voice suddenly quiet and eerie, “despite what ‘everyone knows,’ there are those of us who remember a different story. We remain vigilant, beautiful in the eyes of our god.”
The Beautiful Ones.
Now the Onyx Staff addresses me. “You do not bear the priest’s mark, Beloved, and we know you to be a twin.” A few contemptuous exclamations rattle the thick air. The Onyx Staff looks to one of the purple-robed priests. “Brother Bonner, would you step forward, please?”
My kidnapper detaches himself from the shadowy group and slouches toward me. Not too close. I resist the urge to spit at him.
The Onyx Staff speaks in a calm voice. “This is the brave young man who discovered the unmarked twin in our midst—the monster.” He turns to Bonner. “All of Caldaras owes you a debt of gratitude, Beloved. Now, if you could do us one more service.”
Bonner nods. “Anything, Your Benevolence.”
“I would like you to answer a question,” the high priest says. “How can we identify a redwing?” Bonner’s eyes flick to the black-clad priest with the stritch whip, but the Onyx Staff chuckles and says, “Do not fear, Beloved. You have done nothing wrong. I am merely giving you the opportunity to prove your case to our brothers and sisters.”
Relief floods Bonner’s face. “Scars,” he says.
The Onyx Staff looks at me. “If you would be so kind as to kneel, Beloved,” he says gently, and in a split second, I’m struck again with the stritch whip, this time on the back of the legs. I fall hard onto the floor, smashing my knees. The chains around my wrists jerk, making terrible clanking sounds that fill the quiet space. I am coughing when the Onyx Staff says, “Are you prepared to provide the evidence for this, Brother Bonner?”
I can see Bonner sweating. He doesn’t know if I have scars or not, and it’s possible he’s been wasting everyone’s time. I glare at him, glad he gets to stew a little before this is all over. His turnip face glistens.
Seriously, Jey, this clod?
He approaches me hesitantly. The Onyx Staff motions for me to turn around, and the priest in black pulls on my chains. I comply, and soon feel the timid scrape of a blade at the back of my neck.
The little dirtbag, he’s actually going to slice my clothes off. I hear the fabric of Jey’s green gardener’s jumpsuit slowly ripping. He doesn’t have to rip it all the way down, but he does anyway, and my naked, scarred back is on thrilling display for the whole room.
“Behold the righteous scars forever carved into the back of every wicked redwing! Behold the proof of the gods’ eternal anger!” The Onyx Staff’s voice cuts the stale air as the room erupts in shouts and cheers and anger. “Now we strike for the second, and final, evidence.” The black-clad priest prods me to turn and face the room again.
“Let us see,” the Onyx Staff bellows, “what flows through the veins of this creature!”
One of the purple priests approaches, wielding a shiny dagger set with stones that sparkle. Bonner, eyes wide, steps aside as the purple priest takes my hand, extending my arm and pushing the sleeve of my jumpsuit up to my elbow. He rests the blade of the dagger against my skin.
“My ear’s bleeding already,” I offer. “I can’t quite reach my hair, but you could just lift it up and show everyone if that’s easier.”
“Be quiet,” he snaps, pressing the blade. With a quick motion, he slashes the dagger across my forearm. I feel nothing, but blood gushes out—more than I would have imagined.
Bonner steps back, horrified. “It … it really is black,” he murmurs as the liquid drips down my fingers and pools on the dimly lit floor. I stare at my wound, slightly perplexed. It doesn’t even sting.
“What did you expect?” I ask. Then, just to be nasty, I give him a good snarl. He jumps six inches into the air. I can’t help but laugh. It comes out as a strangled cough.
The room is in a frenzy now. “The blood of evil!” the Onyx Staff says. “No human goodness resides in the veins of this creature! Brothers and Sisters, look upon this redwing, and look upon your doom!”
Breathe, I think. They don’t know how much doom I could bring them.
And I find myself waiting for it. I want to lose control. I want to blame my evil blood for the mayhem I will rain down upon this sanctuary.
“I am condemned, then?” I say. “You’re certain of that?”
“One does not condemn a monster to death.” The Onyx Staff raises one thin eyebrow. “One only has to capture it, and give it what it deserves.” He motions, a twitch of his fingers, and I hear gears clank somewhere behind me.
My first burst of fire almost hits home. I see a distinct flash of surprise contort the Onyx Staff’s face as flames erupt from my hands. Priests dive and shout.
But before I can strike fully, I’m knocked backwards by harsh jets of water that come javelining out of what I now realize are large pipes edging the room. The torrent pushes me back against the carved wall, and as I thrash, I see the assembly regaining its composure.
Damn it to wet hell. If I’d attacked only moments earlier, they’d all be smoldering piles of righteousness by now. But I just had to know that I was to be condemned, that I was out of options, didn’t I? Imbecile. I had to be able to justify. As if a raptor needs to justify its talons, or a volcano its lava.
I struggle to stand, thick jets of water forcing me ever backwards, my chains slicing into my wrists as I writhe. The Onyx Staff shouts above the din, and priests scramble to pull levers and turn valves. I’ve got to regain control, call back my fire.
Then, with a groan, the floor begins to tilt.
I slip, liquid over smooth metal, sliding away from the priests and the Onyx Staff. Through gasps and rushes of water, I see them illuminated by white sun instead of dingy secondhand window light. That can only mean—
I twist to find open air behind me. The mechanisms in the floor are winding it down away from the wall, a jaw opening as the priests watch from their level platform. I’m sliding toward sky.
My feet scrabble for purchase, but the floor is too slick. I wrap my fingers around the chains at my wrists, the only things between me and the high mist, as the outside pours in.
Soon the floor is gone entirely. The jets of water stop. And I hang.
Through the glare, my eyes register the delicate emerald rainbow of the Jade Bridge stretching into the mist far to my left. My gaze travels upward, into the blinding white fog behind which a sun must surely burn somewhere, then down.