The Cruel Path

by David J Normoyle

  THE CRUEL PATH

  David J. Normoyle

  Copyright 2013 by David J. Normoyle

  Smashwords Edition

  BLURB

  In a society without love, three brothers develop an unbreakable bond; in a land without mercy, only a handful of boys like them are allowed to reach adulthood.

  The three brothers take on the pitiless test of the Green Path, knowing that even if they win, one of them must die.

  But which? Having to make that terrible decision proves crueler than anything else the Green Path can throw at them.

  Chapter 1

  I am a monster. I say it inside my mind and it feels right. It feels true. I survived when many others have died. But how can I just go on living as if everything is fine? How can I forget what has happened? Forget what I have done?

  Being inside the Refuge magnifies my despair. How long has it been since I entered now? Nine, ten days? Eleven? Time barely has meaning in here—it just stretches out interminably.

  Dead air presses upon me, and dust is a thick cloud that chokes and claws at my lungs. And the heat—I should be used to it by now, for it’s not as bad as it was on those last few days on the surface, before we came down here. But I’m not. My skin feels desiccated, like paper. My thirst hasn’t been fully quenched since I arrived; those bringing water don’t come often enough.

  I don’t feel seventeen anymore. I feel older, as old as death. You have to grow up fast on Arcandis. Fifty days on the Green Path feels like years. How can I still be only seventeen? Torches are only lit intermittently, mainly at mealtimes. The darkness is continually closing in on me. Rationality has a difficult job controlling the deeper recesses of the mind in a place like this.

  I haven’t registered who everyone around me is. All I know is that they all stink of sweat. The heat saps the energy levels and raises the tempers. There’s not much talking, not much to say. This place is a stasis, a hibernation. Everything will resume the way it was—the same jostling for position, the same alliances, the same scheming, but for now there is just waiting.

  I still haven’t gotten used to the oppressive feeling of so many people near me. My brother is the only person I can identify easily. And though I love him more than anyone else, I now find his presence unbearable. Worse than the heat, worse than the smell and the dust and the darkness. Because he was a part of it, part of what I did. I sense a movement from him and flinch away as he leans in close.

  “It’ll soon be over, Eolnar,” my brother whispers in my ear. “Only a few more days and we’ll be out of here and able to take our rightful place as ascor. Together we’ll rise high, you’ll see. Perhaps one of us will even become Guardian one day.”

  I don’t say anything, just wait until he shifts away again. He is calm and full of purpose; he seems untroubled by how we got here. Though he must be scarred—how can he not be?—he is prepared to move on and forget the horror we endured. I know his way makes sense. When we leave the Refuge, the first days of the new sexennium will be crucial for newly raised ascor like us. But reason can’t banish the bands of iron that constrict my heart.

  I came up with a plan. A wise old man told me that only if I could explain something fully could I be sure that I understood it. My mind is going in circles, and I need to gain a fresh perspective. So I decided to write down the full story, explaining everything in detail along the way.

  I managed to scavenge two quills and some ink and paper from one of the Refuge supply masters. He thought it a crazy request but found me what I needed. I found a crevice for the inkpot where it wouldn’t spill and a board to put under my pages. To write in the darkness, my intended technique was to place the second quill down horizontally across the page and use that as a guide for my hand as I wrote across the page, moving the guide quill incrementally down as I finished each line.

  Since I don’t intend for anyone else to read the account, perhaps I could have just written each line over the next in a haphazard fashion. But some quirk of my brain makes me always do things neatly. My other brother used to give me grief about it. My dead brother. I feel a twinge in my gut, and decide to begin.

  “Eolnar, Frodan, Sorani, and the Green Pa,” I write, and my quill falls off the side of the page. I frown because I can’t correct the title in the darkness. I think, then move the second quill down the width of my baby finger, move my writing hand to the center of the page and write, “th.” Then I move the quill down another finger’s width and begin.

  Chapter 2

  Eolnar, Frodan, Sorani, and the Green Pa

  th

  We grew up together in Lessard Mansion as brothers. That set us apart from the other boys, or at least we felt it did. Those of us who were due to walk the Green Path together all trained in weapons, learned lessons, and played together. For most of them, that was their family.

  But our mother, Joseen, made sure we spent time together with her and with our father, Cenarro. She called it family time. We were all in the Lessard family, but she used the word just to encompass us three brothers, plus herself and Cenarro. Cenarro’s other wives must have barely seen him, from the amount of his time that Joseen claimed. The rest of the Lessard ascor didn’t pay any attention to their sons; we were the exception. Cenarro did it just for Joseen’s sake, I’m sure.

  So although many of the other Greens-in-waiting were half-brothers or cousins to each other—if they could be bothered to work it out—we three were the only ones who felt and acted like true brothers. We watched out for each other; we cared for each other; we loved each other. It never occurred to us that could be a bad thing—how could it? Our bond gave us strength, and together we were invincible.

  I was only ten when that bond was truly tested for the first time. Frodan was nine and Sorani was eight, and we were playing capture the flag. We worked together in games like this, and, for that reason, we often won. And that day like many others, we joyfully claimed the flag together, simultaneously grasping it. Looking back, I can now see that it was too easy that day, but at the time we were young enough to not be aware that the scheming that runs through the blood of the noble families begins at a young age. It was a trap.

  The flag had been set in a distant corner of the Lessard grounds, and a dozen boys converged on us. We fought, but there were too many and I was shoved to the ground by three of them. It was seven years ago and I still vividly remember the texture of the dirt: it was black and wet and stank of rotting wood. I spat it out and twisted my head to look up as my chest was pushed into the ground and my arms were yanked against my shoulder blades. “What do you want?” I shouted.

  Standing at the top of the mound of dirt was—I could have guessed—Grayer. He fancied himself a leader, and never liked the way we three ignored him.

  Grayer picked up the flag where it had been dropped in the struggle. “I’ve noticed that you three always hang together. You call yourselves brothers. Just because one of the ascor takes you out for picnics every now and again, you think you’re special.”

  “What of it?” I jerked upward, trying to free myself but it was no use—my arms coming out of their sockets was the only thing likely to happen if I continued to struggle. Some of the boys were five- and six-year-olds, but one of them, a friend of Grayer’s called Vainn, was big and strong enough to hold me down by himself.

  “I wanted to test this brotherhood,” Grayer said. “Come here, Arion. Show them what you found.”

  Arion climbed up the mound to stand beside Grayer. He was the same age as Grayer and myself, but I didn’t know much about him. He was good with weapons but tended to keep to himself. He offered a small object to Grayer.

  Grayer dropped the flag, took the object, and brought it close to my face. I flinched away from it, as muc
h as I was able. It was a ring, but it was also so much more.

  Grayer smiled. “So you know what this is.” He moved to show it to Frodan, then to Sorani. Grayer’s smile deepened when he saw Sorani’s lack of reaction. “Little Sorani doesn’t know what this is.” Grayer knelt down and placed the ring right in front of my brother’s nose. “This is called a Paradise Giver. It’s a very special type of ring worn only in extreme circumstances.” Grayer placed the ring on his finger and showed it to Sorani, palm up. “You see this sharp little spike that comes out the front of the ring? Very useful. You don’t have an itch on your chin? I could scratch it for you with this.”

  Sorani shook his head.

  “Get that thing away from him.” I hoped my voice sounded threatening, but in truth I was paralyzed with fear. If Grayer stumbled, it would be over for Sorani.

  “You can sense you don’t want to be touched by this, can’t you, even if you don’t know what it is,” Grayer said to Sorani. “The spike is hollow, and inside the ring there’s a small chamber with a black liquid called Paradise’s Kiss.” Now it was Sorani’s turn to flinch. His nose flared and his eyes opened wide. “I see you’ve heard of that. When the ascor and ascora decide to step off the mortal Path, Paradise’s Kiss is the usual poison, and Paradise Givers are the usual method of injection.”

  Grayer stood up, and I remembered to breathe again. “Arion found one and we didn’t want to put it to waste. So we decided to test what it means to be a brother. You three can decide which of you gets to visit paradise before the Green Path has even begun.”

  “You’re lying. You wouldn’t dare.” I strained to free myself again, but by now I could barely move at all. Vainn and the other boys on my back had me totally immobilized. I had to believe that it was a bluff by Grayer, but nothing in his voice or manner indicated he was joking. To his side, Arion’s tongue ran along his top lip.

  “Oh, I would dare. In fact, I guarantee one of you will feel the sting of a Paradise Giver in the next few moments. The only question is,” he said, pausing to walk across in front of each of us, dangling his palm with the spike prominent, “will it be little Sorani, happy Frodan, or clever Eolnar?”

  None of us said anything.

  “Come on now. Save yourselves. Name a brother, any brother. Eolnar, you are the oldest, what do you say?”

  I just stared at him.

  Grayer moved on to my brother beside me. “And you?” he asked.

  Frodan jammed his lips closed.

  “Little Sorani, you don’t want to die at eight years old, do you? They’ve made it easy for you. Just name one of your brothers and you are safe.”

  Sorani shook his head vehemently back and forth.

  Grayer sighed. “I didn’t want to choose myself, but I will. Eolnar is the oldest.” He leaned down in front of me, with his palm outstretched before him and the spike brushed past the front of my nose. I curled my hands into fists and waited. Fear hammered through me.

  “No,” Frodan demanded. “Choose me.”

  Grayer shifted toward Frodan. I opened my eyes.

  “I said I would let you three choose. And so I will.” Grayer’s hand hovered over the back of Frodan’s neck. “Unless one of you two wants to take Frodan’s place.”

  I should have shouted out to save Frodan, like he did for me. But fear constricted my throat. And then it was too late. Grayer slapped the back of Frodan’s neck with the Paradise Giver.

  I surged to my feet, and this time Vainn and the others fell away, letting me stand. I shoved those holding Frodan off of him and turned him onto his back. Sorani joined me, kneeling at Frodan’s side.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. It was a stupid question. Everyone knew that Paradise’s Kiss was fatal.

  “I don’t feel any different,” Frodan said. “How am I supposed to feel?”

  “You are supposed to feel like a big donkey,” Grayer said.

  I looked up. Grayer was laughing, and so were the others around him. Only Arion remained serious, watching Frodan intently. “This was just a joke?” I asked.

  “Of course it was. You should see your faces right now. Priceless.”

  I was confused, uncertain whether to feel foolish, angry, or relieved. I helped Frodan to his feet.

  Grayer gave a mock cheer. “Look, he’s still alive.”

  Then Frodan stumbled and we had to grab him to stop him falling. I looked over to Grayer, whose face had fallen into a look of confusion. “The ring was empty. It was just a joke,” he said. Several of the other boys ran off.

  “I don’t have time for you right now, but if you’ve harmed Frodan…” I didn’t finish the threat. “Help me get him back,” I said to Sorani, and we each threw one of his arms over our shoulders and half-carried him back to the mansion. Frodan tried to make jokes, but I couldn’t even attempt to laugh. His face was pale and drawn. He should have been dead by now—or close to it—if he’d actually taken Paradise’s Kiss, so I didn’t know what had happened.

  When summoned, the doctor realized that trace amounts of the poison had been inside the empty Paradise Giver. Unfortunately, that was all the help the doctor could give. There was no treatment for Paradise’s Kiss. Frodan was put to bed to see if his body could fight off the tiny amount of poison inside him.

  It was a long night, the longest one I had known up until then. Sorani and I sat with him. Joseen checked on us a few times, but she couldn’t stop crying whenever she saw Frodan’s pale face. The three of us made jokes that no one laughed at and told stories of old adventures together. There’s plenty of mischief to be found in Lessard Mansion, and we looked for it harder than most. So there was no lack of stories. When Frodan fell asleep, Sorani and I didn’t move; we sat on either side of his bed and waited. The eunuchs tried to chase us out after midnight, but when they saw the looks on our faces they didn’t try too hard.

  I fell asleep a few times, but only for moments, and my own falling motion woke me each time. Then I would feel a renewed panic when I saw his lifeless features. But each time, once I looked closer, I could see that he continued to breathe. Near dawn, his breathing became more ragged. Sorani looked at me with frightened eyes and I reached across and gripped his hand.

  Not long after, Frodan woke. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Frodan gave me a wink, and only then did I know that everything was going to be fine. I cried, spilling large, hot tears. They had been near the surface, ready to fall in grief, and now they washed down my cheeks in happiness. Sorani wept, too.

  “This isn’t a funeral, brothers, save your tears,” Frodan said.

  We linked hands in a circle, holding tight to each other. We didn’t need to say anything. A short time later, the eunuchs brought breakfast and Frodan ate ravenously, quite opposite to the demeanor of the person who had been near death the night before.

  Cenarro came later that day, but he didn’t enter our room. We could hear him out in the corridor.

  “Won’t you come in and see him?” Joseen asked. “He’s much better now, but he was in a bad way last night. He would appreciate it.”

  “No.” It was unusual for Cenarro to be so gruff with her. I crept closer to the door so I wouldn’t miss anything.

  “What’s going to happen to the boys who did this?” Joseen asked. “This Grayer and Arion.”

  “Nothing.”

  “How can nothing happen to them? They nearly murdered our son.”

  “Your son,” Cenarro said. “I’ve entertained this ridiculousness of calling him our son long enough.”

  “He’s yours just as much as mine. We made them together. They all look so like you. Frodan and Eolnar have your chin and your eyes. And little Sorani is like a smaller version of you.”

  “They may technically be my sons, but that means nothing to us. To me. We are not escay.” I knew that was final. He wouldn’t invoke a comparison with the escay, the lower classes, even to deny it, unless he was serious. There would be no more picnics with our father.

 
; “Even if he wasn’t your son, a nine-year-old boy was nearly poisoned to death,” Joseen said. “And you’re telling me that nothing will happen to those responsible. They tried to murder my boy.”

  I was surprised my mother was so calm even if the last two words did sound shrill.

  Cenarro let out a long sigh. “We can’t punish them for something that will be encouraged when they are on the Path. They haven’t yet been Greens.” He walked away, the sound of his footsteps fading quickly. Joseen hesitated, and then she walked in the opposite direction, back toward her quarters.

  They haven’t yet survived the Green Path, so their lives are worthless. That was what Cenarro was thinking and had said in so many words. I’d known about the Green Path all my life, but it was only then that what it meant sunk in. There were nearly three dozen of us that played together, and we would walk the Path together. Only one or two of us would survive, maybe three if we were lucky. So the ascor saw no need to care about what happened to us. If a few of us died off beforehand, that just meant fewer to die on the Green Path.

  I went back to Frodan’s bed. They had both heard Cenarro’s words. Sorani had a different take on what he’d heard. “They won’t do anything to Grayer or Arion. That also means they won’t do anything to us if we take revenge on them.”

  “That’s true.” I had been too worried about Frodan to even think about the ones responsible. But now the anger returned in full force as I remembered what they’d done. Remembered being held down while they almost killed my brother.

  “We should make them pay,” Sorani said.

  “No.” Frodan sat up on the bed. “They didn’t mean to hurt me. It was meant to be a joke.”

  “They must have spent days planning this. All of them were in on it.” Sorani’s voice trembled. “We did nothing to them, and they made us choose which of us to die. I don’t believe they didn’t know about the poison.” He thumped his fist against the headboard, rattling it hard.

  I saw Sorani differently that day. He’d always been little Sorani, the baby among us. I didn’t expect to see so much anger and forcefulness inside someone so young.