Reaper's Awakening

by Jacob Peppers

  “Clara,” Leandria said, covering her mouth with her hands, “You’re terrible!”

  Her cousin laughed, dangling her legs over the chair she sat in, “Well, if you’ll tell me nothing then I’ll be forced to continue at my guessing game. Perhaps, Sir—”

  “Fine,” Leandria said, “I will tell you some. He’s none of those you mentioned, but he does cut quite a figure. And his voice. Oh, Clara, it’s like honey and gravel mixed, like the sound of water rushing over stone. And he’s so brave. He could teach your Sir Gallant a thing or two, I don’t doubt. His face … a nobler one has never been sculpted, not even by Euripeden, and his eyes--“

  She realized she was rambling and stopped, looking at Clara who stared at her with wide eyes.

  “By the Divines,” her cousin whispered, fanning her face with her hand, “does he have a brother?”

  Leandria laughed, finding herself excited to finally be talking to someone about Quintin. He’d told her not to, but, of course, surely he wouldn’t mind her telling Clara. “No brother, I’m afraid. He is, in all ways, one of a kind.”

  “Why, I find that I love him already. And is he coming to tomorrow’s ball? You really must introduce me.”

  Leandria hesitated, suddenly unsure, “I … he may attend. I am not certain.”

  Clara winked again, “Too busy saving kittens and helping old ladies with chores for dancing is he? Or is it possible that he has two left feet?”

  Leandria giggled and waived a hand dismissively, “I doubt that very seriously. Now, enough of that for now. Tell me, has anything interesting happened in the castle?” Leandria always loved listening to Clara tell stories of the servants and maids and what they got up to. It sometimes seemed to her—most times, in fact—that theirs was a life she envied, full of easy laughter and crude jokes that seemed so much more real than one whose every conversation, excepting those with Clara, thank the Divines, was mostly made up of curtsies and bows.

  “Oh,” Clara said, “I almost forgot to tell you. The Prefect arrived a short time ago.” Her smile faded, “It’s rumored the Church intends to raise the numbers of the Drawing again.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Leandria said, “Why they raised them only two months gone.”

  Clara shook her head, “Perhaps, but it seems to be the truth just the same. I had it from Fenten, one of the castle guards, who overheard the Prefect talking to one of his aids about just that. Apparently, the number is to be raised from a dozen to twenty.”

  “That’s absurd! For years, ten was plenty and now, all of a sudden, it has risen to a dozen and now they wish to take it to twenty.”

  “You’ll have no argument from me, princess. Perhaps your father—”

  “No,” Leandria said, rising from her chair, “I won’t allow it, the old fools. They raise the number wantonly and then look shocked when men like this Memory gather such a following. Well, of course the people are angry, every month they gather to the town square and pray to the Divines that their names or those of their loved ones aren’t one of the twelve drawn, and now, they want to increase the number to twenty? Will they not be happy until the entire city has rebelled or been given the rites?”

  She started for the door and Clara rose, putting a hand on her shoulder, “But princess, what do you plan to do?”

  Leandria turned to her cousin, “Father is always telling me that I should take more of an interest in government, that it could be me sitting on the throne one day instead of him. Well, I am most certainly interested now. I’m sorry to cut our meeting short, Clara, and it really has been great to see you. I’ll find you later,” and with that she was out the door, leaving Clara staring after her, a worried expression on her face.

  ***

  “I’m sorry, princess,” one of the guards—a man named Blain, if she wasn’t mistaken—said as she approached, “but your father is in counsel just now. If you’d like to—”

  “I am well aware that my father is in counsel, sir, and as the princess of this kingdom, it is my duty to attend such meetings as this. Please, open the door.”

  The guard glanced at his companion helplessly, and they pulled the doors open. Leandria marched through, her chin raised. Her father was seated on the throne, his expression grim. In front of him, a short distance from the raised dais, stood Saliander Daven, his four aids—all young, pretty women, Leandria noted—spread out behind him, their heads down.

  “Father,” Leandria said without preamble, aware and more than a little pleased that she’d cut the Prefect off mid-speech, “I apologize for my tardiness.”

  “Oh?” The king asked, frowning, “and here I thought you must be coming to speak to me about whatever was so urgent last night.”

  Leandria froze at that, the courage, brought on as it had been by her anger, vanished as surprise and more than a little shame took its place. “Father,” she said, “I’m sorry. But I was gone for only a short time, you can ask Clause yourse—”

  “That, I’m afraid, will not be possible.” Her father said, “Clause no longer works in the castle but has been reassigned to city patrol for a time. Perhaps, there, he will better understand the duties expected of him.”

  Leandria recoiled as if slapped. Clause had guarded the castle since she was a child, and she knew enough of the guards to know that city patrol was a task most often given to new guardsmen. The appointment would and, she realized looking at her father, was meant to shame the older man. “But, father,” she said, hating the desperation in her voice but unable to hide it, “Clause has guarded the castle for nearly twenty years. Surely, one mistake—”

  “Is all it takes,” he said, his voice ringing in the audience chamber with the tone only a king could muster. It was a tone that said it expected to be heeded, to be obeyed. “As for the rest, we will discuss it later. Now, be seated, Leandria. You have interrupted this audience for long enough.”

  Leandria hesitated, wanting to say something more to defend Clause, but the look in her father’s face decided her against it, and she walked to the smaller throne beside her father’s and sat without another word.

  “Now, then, Prefect,” her father said, turning back to the man, “please, continue.”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Saliander said in his somehow oily voice that always made Leandria think of a snake in robes, “As I was saying before the princess’s … arrival, my priests and aids assure me that the increase in the allotted number of the Drawing two months gone has had a noticeable effect on the Ether. Noticeable but, alas, not enough. They theorize that the increase in disturbances and mutations within the Ether are due to interruptions in the flow of essences brought on by the approaching winter. One, it is believed, that will be the worst we have seen in many, many years. What’s more, they believe that the weather patterns are similar to those present at the beginning of the Fulmination and—”

  “Do not speak to me of theories and weather patterns,” her father interrupted, his voice cold. “Only, tell me, Saliander, what it is you want of me.”

  The Prefect frowned, Leandria was sure, not at the abruptness of her father’s words but at the lack of his title. A snake, she thought, but even snakes can be vain.

  “The Church, after many hours of study and, in its wisdom, has determined that a second Fulmination might only be averted by an increase in the monthly Drawing to a total of no less than eight unsullied essences, bringing the new count to twenty.”

  There was a pregnant silence, one in which Leandria barely managed to keep herself from shouting in outrage. She glanced at her father and knew him well enough to see the tightly-controlled anger lurking beneath the surface of his calm demeanor. “Twenty.” he said, his voice resounding in the audience room with the power of a thunderstorm, “You would ask twenty people to give up their lives every month.”

  “Of course not, Your Highness,” the Prefect said in the arrogant, haughty tone of a tutor educating his pupil, “I would ask twenty people to sacrifice their lives for tens of tho
usands. Without the necessary essences, a second Fulmination will come. Men and women will be cursed with mutations, babes will be born dead or lame, and—”

  “I know of the Fulmination well enough,” the king interrupted, a note of warning in his tone, “Do not presume to lecture me, Saliander. I am no child, to be frightened into obedience. I am your king, and you would do well to remember that.”

  The old man bowed his head, “Of course, Your Highness, I apologize,” he said in a long-suffering tone that held no apology in it, “I can assure you that I mean no disrespect. It is only,” he paused, and Leandria thought she could see something hungry lurking in his gaze, “that without the necessary sacrifices … the Church wants only what is best for the people, Your Highness. Was it not the First Prime, your ancestor, Animandus Parsinian who said, “It is a terrible sacrifice I ask, but there is no greater honor than to save those who cannot save themselves.”

  “You would use my own grandfather’s words against me?” Her father said, anger and wonder mixing in his tone, “as if I know them not?” He shook his head wearily, “You overstep yourself, Saliander. The Parsinian line will do what it must to protect its people. As ever we have.”

  The Prefect nodded, bowing low, and although his face was expressionless, Leandria thought she could detect the ghost of a smug, self-satisfied smile lurking beneath the surface.

  She turned to her father and saw that his own countenance was troubled, thoughtful. “Father,” she said, “You can’t really—”

  “Peace, daughter,” the king said, his face looking like one of a much older man, “for I know well what you would say and, Divines forgive me, I must do what is right for my people.”

  “No!” Leandria shouted, “father, please. He—”

  “Silence!” The king roared. “This is what it means to rule, Leandria, what it means to lead. Someone must make the difficult choices, and it is my duty to do it.” He paused and, when he spoke again, his voice was softer, gentler, “It takes a very special kind of courage to lead, daughter. One day, perhaps, when you are queen, you will understand—”

  “No, I won’t!” She shouted, rushing to her feet, “I don’t want to be queen. I refuse to be part of a ruling house who would slaughter so many of its own people. And courage?” She asked, outraged, “it’s not courage, father that this, this worm would have you follow but cowardice. He and his scribblers are nothing but cravens and, what’s more, he would turn you craven as well. How long, father? How long before we are killing more than we save? Before our own souls are black from the doing of it?”

  “Leandria—” her father began.

  “No, father,” she said, standing before him, “in this, I will not be silenced. In eighteen years of my life, never once have I been ashamed to call you my father. Never until now.” The hurt look of surprise in her father’s face made her wish to take the words back, but she would not. Could not.

  “The Princess Leandria is quite kind, I’m sure,” the Prefect said, a humoring tone to his voice, “possessed of great compassion as an individual of her station must be, but—”

  Leandria rounded on him with such fury that the older man took a step back despite the fact that there were more than fifteen feet between them, “Silence you vile, lecherous snake.”

  The old man drew himself up, his expression twisting in rage, “I will not be shouted down by some wanton—”

  “Careful, Saliander,” the king said, rising from his own throne, his visage angered and more than a little wild, “Representative of the Church or not, you will mind your tongue when you address my daughter, or I will have the captain of my guard mind it for you. Are we clear?”

  The old man’s face writhed into something that could be taken as a smile, though only by those who had never seen one before. “Of course, Your Highness,” he said, bowing low, “I apologize for my words.”

  “Now then, Leandria,” the king said, turning to her, “you have said your piece. Is there anything else?”

  Leandria felt wetness on her cheeks and realized with a start that she was crying, “Father, please, I beg you. For the love you bear me, for that which you bore my mother, do not do this. I ask only that you wait. You said yourself you’ve detected nothing amiss in the Ether. If things should grow worse there will still be time to … do what must be done. But these whose lives are taken are people, father. Not numbers,” she said, glancing at the Prefect, “as he and his lackeys would pretend but people. People like me … like my mother.”

  “Enough,” the king said in a voice raw with some powerful emotion, “you’ve had your say, daughter. Now leave us.”

  “But, father—”

  “Now,” he said in a voice that demanded obedience, “I will visit your rooms shortly.” Leandria swallowed hard then curtsied, walking past the Prefect and his silent aids without so much as a glance in their direction.

  The king waited until the doors had closed behind his daughter before sitting in his throne once more and letting out a long sigh, “Prefect Daven, I have reached my decision. The numbers of individuals selected for the Drawing will remain the same. Until such time as I deem it necessary that they should be increased.”

  The old man’s face twisted first into shock then anger, “Leave us,” he demanded of his aides, and they hurried out. When the doors had closed behind them and it was only himself, the king, and the two guards posted inside of the chamber, the Prefect turned back. “You would not dare to go against the church in this.”

  The king remained calm, “You are standing in my audience hall inside of my castle, Prefect and have insulted my daughter. You would be wise not to guess at what I’d dare to do.”

  “Yes, your daughter,” the old man spat, “Quite lucky, isn’t she? To have survived the fever that nearly took her life two years ago. How lucky, how blessed, you were then to have the Church come to your aid in your time of need.”

  The king leaned forward, his knuckles white where he gripped the arms of his throne, “Careful, Saliander. You overreach your grasp.”

  “But, my king,” the old man spat, “luck is ever a fickle mistress. She has a way of turning on a man just when he believes himself safe. And only after he has lost everything, every one that he cares about, only then—”

  “Sir Danen,” the king said.

  One of the guards at the wall stepped forward, “Your Highness?”

  “If Prefect Daven speaks again, you are to cut out his tongue.”

  The guard nodded, his approval of the king’s words flashing in his eyes, his hand going to the dagger sheathed at his side, “Yes, my lord.”

  The Prefect’s face turned a dark, angry red, and his eyes bulged madly in his face. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, then glanced at Danen and closed it with an audible clack.

  The king smiled, “And who is to say an old dog cannot learn tricks, after all?” He said. “Now, Danen, Edgar, please escort Prefect Saliander out of the castle. His presence is no longer required.”

  The two guards dropped to their knees in a bow normally reserved for formal events, and Arafel understood the contented approval they showed in those gestures. Then they stood and, without a word, grabbed the Prefect by either arm, half-dragging and half-carrying him out of the hall.

  Arafel Parsinian, King of Anamandia and protector of its people, watched them go then slumped heavily in his throne, cradling his forehead in his hand. The approval and respect of his guardsmen was a good thing, a fine thing, but it did not stop the dread that squeezed at his heart. “Divines protect us,” he whispered, “what have I done?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Cameron stalked through the streets of the city, his head down, his thoughts in so much turmoil that he didn’t notice the usual looks of hate and fear that those sharing the street with him shot in his direction. Nor was he aware of the eyes that marked his passage, of the feet whose steps always seemed to head in the same direction as his own, though at a distance. The truth was, he almost certainly wouldn�
��t have noticed this even had his mind been clear, for the owners of those eyes saw far and well, and the owners of those feet were masters of their craft and aided in their endeavors by the bustling city streets as the day waned and many workers made for their homes or, more often than not, for the nearest tavern.

  He walked for several hours, Marek’s words replaying in his head, his own thoughts condemning him for his doubt, for his questioning of his duty. Who was he to question the will of the Divines? To challenge the man who nearly gave his life to save him when he was but a child, the man who had taken him in and given him a chance at redemption when he’d owed him nothing? To question such a man, to have doubts concerning such a duty, were things which, to his mind, were traitorous in themselves.

  And yet, to his shame, he found that despite all that he knew, despite all that Marek had told him, some small sliver of doubt remained. Not enough to change his opinion of what he knew, not nearly so much, but enough to frighten him. Yes, enough for that. It was as if his mind was infected, had been infected somehow, and he was afraid. He was not comforted by the fact that the doubt was a small thing, weak and frail, for often enough it was the small wounds that killed.

  When he’d still been in training, one of the tutors had told him of a Harvester, Benedict had been his name, a veteran Harvester of twenty summers whose skill and dedication had never been in doubt. The man had performed the rites dozens—perhaps hundreds—of times, and his body, the tutor had told them, had been a patchwork of scars. He had, in fact, even lost an eye on one of his missions, yet he continued on, knowing the importance of his duty.

  Until, that was, one day, when his mark defended himself with a knife. The man had been a secretary or a clerk—some such as that—a man with no callouses on his hands and no fire in his heart. But when Benedict came for him, he lashed out with his knife, a pitiful blow, weak and unskilled, yet it had pinked Benedict’s arm with the smallest of cuts before he managed to take him down.