“I’m not my father.” The words were out of Cameron’s mouth before he knew it, and he realized by Marek’s surprised expression that he hadn’t just said them but yelled them. Marek started to frown, and Cameron held his hands up, “I mean … sir, that is … I’m not crazy.”
The old man stared at him for a moment then shook his head, “No, boy, you’re crazy alright. But you’re my kind of crazy, you understand? Kind of crazy that keeps those pricks in the Clerk’s Office alive and well so that they can come up with new ways to be a pain in my ass.”
Cameron didn’t respond to that and Marek frowned once more, studying him, “Alright, lad, out with it. What’s on your mind?”
Now that he was here, Cameron found that he couldn’t bring himself to talk of his doubts, not to this man, this man who had saved him from a murderous father, who had taken him in and given him a chance when no one else would have. He could have just as easily dropped Cameron off at one of the orphanages in the poor quarter, places notorious for the terrible things that happened to the children there, murder and things worse than murder. No one would have thought twice about it—the son of a traitor, with the same traitor’s blood in his own veins? No, no one would have said a word. Instead, Marek had taken him in, had begun training him as a Harvester, had entrusted him with the duty of a Harvester and, thereby, with the lives of everyone in the city. How did you tell a man who’d done all of that that you were having doubts? “It’s nothing, sir … I’m just here for another assignment.”
“Don’t bullshit me, son,” The older man said at once, as if he’d been expecting the answer, “I’ve seen prisoners on their way to the gallows mighta been a sailor in a whorehouse full a virgins compared to you, so out with it.”
Cameron sighed, trying to find a way to put his thoughts into words. “Sir, just … with what we do. I was thinking—”
“And wonderin’ if maybe it’s just a bunch of shit, eh? Wonderin’ if maybe the killing ain’t nothing but killing and if that don’t make you a murderer? Shit and sulfur, boy, don’t look so surprised. You ain’t the first to think it, and you won’t be the last. Every Gleaner asks himself the question sooner or later, if maybe what we’re doin’ needs done or not, like maybe we ain’t just a bunch of crazed killers lookin’ for an excuse to get our blades wet. The Divines know I’ve asked myself such more’n once.”
Cameron found himself leaning forward in his chair, “And what did you decide, sir?”
“Decide?” The leader of the Harvesters barked a laugh, “Who’s to say I have?” He must have seen something in Cameron’s expression because he grunted, “Easy, lad. Here’s the thing—we kill for a livin’ sure. So’s that make us killers? I ‘spose it does. And if sometimes maybe we like the killin’ does that make us crazy? Maybe that’s true too but what of it? I been around a while, boy, been a Harvester for near on thirty years now, and if there’s one thing I’m sure of, you gotta be a little crazy to do the job. What you,” and he leaned forward, poking a thick finger into Cameron’s chest to accentuate his point, “need concern yourself with ain’t the ones we put in the ground but the ones we keep out of it.”
He leaned back again, jerking his thumb at the door, “Out there’s thousands of folks breathin’, bitchin’ and moanin’ about the sorry state their lives are in, women sneakin’ off to spread their legs for other men or just to figure out how make the ones they got a little more miserable. Out there’s children runnin’ and screamin’ and slobberin’ and whatever the shit else the fuckers do, and they’re out there because of us.”
“But sir,” Cameron found himself saying, terrified of the words coming out of his own traitorous mouth, “the last Occurrence was over five years ago. Maybe—”
“Maybe what? Maybe the Fulmination’s just a thing happened near a hundred years ago? Maybe evil don’t exist no more neither and everythin’s just pussy and puppy dog breath here on out?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Look, boy, to a lot of folks the Fulmination ain’t nothin’ but a story their parents used to scare the mischief out of ‘em when they were kids. Truth is, I wasn’t even born when it happened but my grandfather, he was. Just a kid at the time—eleven, maybe twelve—but he told me how it was. Said that when folks started showin’ up with these abilities they were small at first. A man might know it’s goin’ to rain without ever steppin’ a foot out of his house or a woman might be able to point at exactly where her little runt is no matter if he’s ten miles away. Well, accordin’ to the old man, people started thinkin’ of it like a blessing, you know? As in, ‘Hey, ma, check it out, I can make a match burn just by lookin’ at it for five minutes.”
He shrugged, “And Divines know I can’t blame ‘em. There’s been more’n once I wouldn’t have minded such powers myself. It’d be somethin’ not far short of my life’s dream if I could make that greasy-talking Baranen and his little pencil pushing cronies shit themselves the next time they came to lecture me about the ‘imperative of frugality.’”
He laughed aloud, as if picturing the scene, then shook his head, “Anyhow. Even when the powers started to get stronger, when some unlucky swindlers started getting’ their throats cut on account of they ran into a man who knew, who absolutely knew, you understand, that it had been the medicine they’d sold killed his little girl, or when it was decided—true or not, mind—that a man who had too good a run at cards had a power let ‘em know what everyone was holdin’, still they didn’t question it. My grandpa told me a story of one time there was a man—only a couple towns over—who could start fires with his mind, not in five minutes you understand, but right then. Anyway, story is that the man’s wife was killed in a mugging gone wrong and the husband burned the whole town to ashes, hundreds killed. Still, people didn’t question the gifts. Sure, the man had been crazy, but that was on him, not the gifts.”
He snorted, “No, they didn’t question those till about the time women started having less babies, when the ones they did have came out missin’ parts or carrying extras, three eyes or ears, a shriveled arm growing out their back, in case they needed a spare, I ‘spose. Then folks started getting other abilities, like the one not to be able to sleep no matter how tired they got. Think of it, boy, not being able to sleep. Not ever. They went crazy, of course, started seein’ things that weren’t there, demons and the like, and had to be put down. Or how about this, not being able to step out into the sun without getting burned, and I don’t mean no sun burn, your mom rubs some Soothin’ Grass on you makes it all better. I mean the bastards literally caught on fire.”
“Anyway, you know the story. Durin’ all this, when all the cities and towns had either become wastelands where men’d kill ya if you looked at ‘em too long, that Animandus Parsinian showed up. Started talking about how he’d found new gods, gods that had shown him a way to get rid of all the afflictions and abilities both. Problem was, to do so he’d need to use the essence of other, unaffected men and women.”
He leaned back heavily in his chair, grabbing a cigar from his desk and lighting it. “It ain’t no real surprise the folks left in the cities came after him with death in mind, but he escaped—barely. But as the afflictions grew worse, as the babies started coming out not babies at all but monsters with scales on their bodies and horns on their heads, then folks decided maybe his way wasn’t such a bad one, after all. They went lookin’ for him, and he agreed to help, becoming what we know now as Harvester Prime and King Parsinian, a title that his great grandson, our king, now holds. He took those who were willin and left Erivial—the Doomed Land—and came here to this island, makin’ Carel and founding the Anamandian kingdom. Since then, all of his line have had the gift of shaping the essences, his line and only his line. And we, Cameron, are the ones that make it possible. We don’t choose the names in the Drawing, we only gather those essences the Divines have chosen. What we do ain’t evil, boy. What we do is necessary.”
Cameron had heard the story before, of course, but ne
ver from Marek himself, and the conviction with which the man spoke made him ashamed of his own questions, his own doubts. “You’re right, sir. I’m sorry for doubting.”
“There’s no need, son.”
A thought struck Cameron and, before he could stop himself, he was blurting it out, “But my father, sir, why would he betray the Harvesters and the king? Why, if he knew it was only the king’s ability that kept everyone alive?”
Marek’s thick chest heaved with a sigh. “I’m sure I don’t know, lad. Your father was a damned fine Harvester, the best I’ve ever seen, really, and the King favored him more than any other. Just wasn’t enough for him, I guess. For some folks, nothing ever is. They got an itch they can’t seem to scratch no matter how far they reach. Your father had that itch, and no amount of gold or women or fancy dinners could scratch it. He didn’t want to serve, he wanted to be served. Eventually, he saw the only way to get what he wanted was to kill the king and the other Harvesters both. Luckily, we figured ‘em out before he managed to carry out his plans and, in the end, his essence was taken and used with the others, to keep the curse at bay. In a way, your father’s death returned to him the dignity and heroism that he’d lost. I know you’re ashamed of him, Cameron—you look like a man ready to do murder anytime anyone so much as mentions him—but he wasn’t always a traitor. There was a time your father was a good man, a true friend of mine. Let his life be a lesson to you, boy. Both the good and the bad.”
“But, sir, it just seems … it doesn’t make sense.”
Marek suddenly jerked up from his chair so fast that it fell backward, his expression furious. “Doesn’t make sense?” He ripped his tunic open, sending buttons flying across the room and displaying a long jagged scar that started at his left shoulder and traveled down to the waistband of his trousers. It stood out stark and white in the lantern light. “Does this make enough sense for you? When he learned we’d found him out, he turned on you and your mother. Killed her and damn near killed you, would have if I hadn’t dove in the way and damn near got my fool self cut in two. Laid there bleeding like a fucking pig while your father killed two more of my men—good men—before they finally managed to get his sword from him.”
Cameron saw the older man’s red face, the veins popping out in his neck, and knew that he should stop, but he found that he couldn’t. He wanted, no, he needed to understand. “But why would he turn on my mother and me?” He said, a desperation in his voice that he hated.
“How the fuck should I know?” Marek roared, “I damn near got myself killed savin’ you, boy. I don’t think it’d be too much to ask for a little damn appreciation.”
“Sir, I didn’t mean—”
“To the Pit with what you meant.” He sighed, righted his chair, and sat once more. “Never mind,” he said in a tired voice, “Just go home, Cameron. I don’t need you now.” He waved a hand at the door in disgust, “Tashel will be more than happy to pick up the slack. There’s a boy willin’ to work for every scrap he’s given. I’ll let ya know when I want you.”
Cameron opened his mouth to speak, to apologize, but the expression on Marek’s face decided him against it, so he rose and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Marek stared at the door for several moments after the young Harvester was gone, thinking. Finally, he let out a sigh, withdrew a fresh piece of paper from his desk, and began to write.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Her hands guided the needle as it traced its path in and out of the fabric, but Leandria’s mind was elsewhere. Her thoughts kept drifting to Quintin standing in the moonlight, to how brave he’d looked when he drew his sword and strode into the shadows to protect her. Never mind that there’d been nothing to protect her from, he’d seemed then, like some story book hero defending his lover’s honor. At that thought, she felt her face flush with heat, and she let out a startled yelp as she accidentally pricked her finger.
“Do you know, princess, what the common nickname for a hemstitch is?” Matron Jacqueline asked in a neutral tone, as if she hadn’t noticed the princess’s outburst.
Leandria looked up from where she’d been sucking on the droplet of blood on her finger, “No ma’am.”
“It is often referred to as the ‘blind stich.’ Do you care to hazard a guess as to why?”
“Because … you’re not meant to see it?”
“Exactly so!” The older woman said, nodding approvingly. Then she glanced meaningfully at Leandria’s work, “Bearing that in mind … how successful would you say your attempts have been?”
Leandria glanced down and saw that her stitching was crooked and erratic, traveling far away from the hem and into the cloth itself, “Um,” she said, her face growing hot again, though for a very different reason, “not very successful.”
The older woman inclined her head slightly, “Just so. Do you believe that a young lady, like yourself, would be excited at the prospect of wearing such a dress to tomorrow’s ball?”
Leandria sighed, “No ma’am.”
Matron Jacqueline opened her mouth, no doubt planning a lecture that recounted the exploits of great princesses of the past, the chief of which would include sewing, painting, poetry, and anything else of no practical use, but just then Clara burst through the door. She was Leandria’s own age of eighteen, and they’d grown up together. Although Clara was technically a servant, she was, more importantly, Leandria’s best friend, capable of making her laugh when no one or nothing else could.
Clara swept into the room, her long hair fanning out behind her, a porcelain mask held to her face. “Do I look delectable, princess or—” she cut off as she noticed the older woman sitting in the room and the hand holding the mask vanished behind her back. “Matron Jacqueline,” she said with an embarrassed curtsy, “I didn’t know you were here.”
The gray-haired woman raised an eyebrow, “No, Clara. I don’t suspect you did.” She studied the bright sleeveless dress Clara was wearing, “I take it Mistress Beatrice has no tasks for you?”
Clara studied the floor at her feet, “No ma’am. Adaline and me have the day off, because of the ball.”
“Adaline and I, dear.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Matron Jacqueline sighed. “Well, let’s see this mask then.”
Clara handed it over like a child caught stealing treats. The matron studied the yellow porcelain mask, on which were painted long black eyelashes and two spots of red on the cheeks. She made a noncommittal sound and handed it back to Clara. “Well, the dress is very nice, my dear.”
Clara curtsied, “Thank you, Mistress. I sewed it myself.”
The older woman nodded, a satisfied smile on her face as if she’d scored a point which, by the way Leandria’s face was growing hotter by the moment, she supposed she had. “Well, princess, I suspect that continuing your lessons would be a fruitless endeavor today. We will resume them later.”
“Yes ma’am,” Leandria said, trying for a tone of contrition but unable to keep the grin off her face.
Matron Jacqueline rose and started for the door, “I wish you both a good time at the ball.” Then she turned back, “Oh, and Clara?”
Clara had been smiling at Leandria, but her smile vanished in an instant as she turned to the governess, “Yes ma’am?”
“True ladies are possessed of grace and poise and can be described in such ways as elegant or dignified. They are not, as a general rule, delectable. Chocolates, my dear, chocolates are delectable.”
Clara bowed her head in what was meant to be chastised agreement, but Leandria could see her mouth pursed in an effort to hold back laughter, and she felt her own mouth tighten in response. “As for the dress,” the older woman continued, “it is elegant as well as beautiful. However, it seems that you forgot to finish the neckline and, one only assumes, must have ran out of materials before you made it to the sleeves.” With that, she turned and left, closing the door behind her, and Leandria and Clara burst into fits of unrestrained laughter. Listening to th
em through the doorway, Matron Jacqueline allowed herself a smile, remembering her own youth, then turned, once more assuming her no-nonsense expression, and started down the hall. Perhaps, she would stop by the kitchen and see if the cook had any chocolates at hand.
“Oh, Clara,” Leandria said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “It is good to see you. The castle is so big that, sometimes, it feels as if we live in different worlds.”
Clara grinned, lounging in the chair the Matron had occupied in a casual way that would have caused the old woman fits. “You’re right there, princess. Although, from how it seems to me, I’m not entirely sure your feet are on the ground of any world.”
Leandria raised an eyebrow, “And just what does that mean?”
Clara shrugged, smiling, “Oh, nothing, I suppose. Just that, unless I miss my guess, some noble Knight Gallant has come and stolen my lady’s heart.”
“Wha—why would you say that?” Leandria said.
Clara winked, “I’m not blind, am I? Even now, I feel like you’re looking at me from on your cloud. “Come,” she said, leaning forward and grabbing Leandria’s hands, “You must tell me everything. To which house does he belong? No, no, let me guess it. Sir Anders? He does cut quite a figure, though I find that he has an unnatural fondness for the color black. Or is it Sir Tolver, perhaps? Oh, his face is one that could inspire ballads and his family rich enough to commission as many poets and song writers as you could wish.”
“Sir Tolver? Even if I was interested—which I’m most certainly not—I’m fairly certain I’d need much shorter hair and many more pairs of trousers before I’d attract his notice.”
Clara’s eyebrows shot up, and they broke into a laughing fit once again. “Fine, alright, he does seem to be lacking in a certain few of the masculine traits.”
“Divines, Clara, the man shaves his arms!”
Clara grinned, “Not Sir Tolver then. Is it, perhaps, Sir Olivier? He’s clever, there’s no denying that. And have you heard him play the lute? Oh, to be the instrument that those fingers went to work upon—”
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