by Norah Wilson
“Reprobates.” He gestured for her to lift another hank of hair, and she obliged. “They’re some distance off, and they were cooking a meal, so there’s no immediate threat.” He sawed through her hair as gently as he could and dropped the locks to the ground. “But we can’t linger here. We need to put some distance between us and them before we can rest.”
She nodded and glanced sideways at her sister. “Zophia, can you start packing?”
“Of course.”
He was conscious of Zophia gathering their things and packing them as he cut the rest of Maree’s hair, and his respect for their resilience grew. It was one thing for a soldier to endure long marches and sleep deprivation. They were hardened to it. But these females were not.
He turned his attention back to the task of cutting Maree’s hair. Though it pained him, he understood perfectly what drove her to do it. It wasn’t just in the hopes of passing for a male. It was a way to reject her past, to refute her role as the Prophet’s whore. She was claiming herself.
When he’d finished, he had to admit it looked a lot like the knife-cut hair sported by most of the Reprobates. At least those that didn’t shave their heads with a blade.
“What do you think?” she asked, running her hand through it.
He cleared his throat. “I think we need to get moving. And I think I’d better bury this before we leave.”
Kallem bent and gathered up the clumps of hair. While they continued to pack up, he scouted the ground until he found a sandy spot and dug a hole into which he dropped the clippings. On an impulse he couldn’t have explained, he took one lock of Maree’s hair and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he quickly buried the rest and rejoined the women.
Chapter 10
THE PROPHET sat on the balcony beneath the wide UV screen, the pale skin of his arms gleaming white in the filtered early-morning sun as he gave himself his first shot of the day. His private chemist had mixed the concoction. Yes, the pain would be dulled—out of his reach somehow—and he would be able to sleep soon, a luxury only afforded him now by his blessed needles. But he would not allow his emotions to be dulled. He had to keep his anger—ready and reachable for when his whore returned.
Though he usually preferred the shadows of his offices and chambers, this morning he needed the light. The air. A different place to think. Besides, from this high balcony above the streets and buildings of the compound center, he could see his people—the watching guards and listening soldiers, the whispering servants, the wondering whores. As he watched, an old woman—a hag—came to the north gate, where she suffered the taunting of the soldiers before they exchanged scraps of bread and bits of cheese for the quilt she bore. One of the soldiers passed it off to a nursery worker, who would pass it on to one of the young females. A comfort? No, a reminder of her lowly place in the world. Warming a bed, bearing a child, or simply lying on that quilt at night before she got to up to toil from dawn to dusk in the nearby fields or in the gristmill or the laundry.
The Prophet watched as the attendants came for Liz and took her away. She’d almost given in—almost uttered the words of soul surrender—that Maree never would. Liz was one of the strong ones; Maree had been stronger. Still was stronger. Unless she’d met her demise out there beyond the gates. Surely his soldier had located her by now, and the breeder too. Kallem would not fail him. Kallem was a loyal soldier. The Prophet was sure of it.
Wasn’t he?
Doubt coiled around his heart like a serpent.
What if I’m wrong? The thought was like a hot strike of that serpent’s fangs. What if I could be so wrong?
Didn’t he believe in his own righteousness? Wasn’t that the commandment—the one he’d given to stand above them all? Yes. He'd seen it. Swagg had seen it too. Though that had been some time ago...
One of his domestic servants stepped out onto the flagstone patio. He knew this one—Luvanne—an older one, barely hanging onto favor enough to remain within the compound. Slowly she came to him, bearing a tray of dried meats, bread and precious juice for his breakfast.
As she approached, his mind slipped back to the audience with Kallem, when he’d given the soldier his charge. There had been that flash in the soldier’s eyes at the mention of Maree’s name. He’d seen the recognition there. But surely that was all it was, just recognition and nothing more...
Luvanne bent to place the breakfast tray on the table before him. Before she could do so, he smashed it from her hands with a fast and raging fist. Everything spilled to the floor with a clatter, and Luvanne went down almost as quickly to clean up the mess.
How far away was this Society Three—if it even existed? Had Kallem reached it already? Had the women led him there? What if they’d found him out? What if Reprobates had come upon him and killed him? Killed the women! Kallem was his most skilled soldier, but if there were enough Reprobates left out beyond the compound walls….
What if he’d decided to keep the virgin—the breeder—for himself? What if the women killed him? He lifted a hand to his injured arm as he thought of this. Maree could do it, if she caught him unsuspecting. He’d told Kallem she still had the knife. Hadn’t he? Dammit, he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t think! He could only…
“Doubt,” he whispered.
“I beg your pardon, Prophet?” Luvanne kept her eyes lowered as she spoke.
He blinked, recalling the servant. “You dropped the tray,” he said coldly.
“Yes, sir. I—”
“That’s what you shall tell them. You dropped the tray. You’re clumsy and old and it slipped from your hands.” There was a pause. “But I’ve…I’ve taken pity on you.”
With a nod of understanding, Luvanne gathered the last pieces of the fallen meal, wiped up the spilled juice with the skirt of her dress, and began to back out of the room. But she dared a glance into the Prophet’s eyes as she did so.
This day she was safe.
Luvanne would tell as he’d ordered—not that he’d knocked the tray flying in an angry outburst—but that it was her fault. He didn’t need more voices rising to question his behavior. The servant would lie because she was old, and in a heartbeat he could order her hagged and expel her from the Holy New Order. She’d be running for her life beyond those gates. Yes, Luvanne knew this. He knew this.
But if he expelled her now, what incentive would she have to stay quiet? To stop her from crying out the things she knew as he had her forced into the wilds? This too was knowledge they shared. Luvanne closed the door behind her, but not before he bade her to send someone else to him.
He was slipping. Not just with the tray here this morning. Not just with his brutal episodes with Liz. But it was the puncture to the armour that Maree had delivered that ate at him the most. That was the open wound. This first cut was always the deepest. The most powerful. Because it was proof that it could be done.
The door opened and a shadow spilled into the sunlight before him. Robinson. His oldest soldier—his most trusted general. If anyone could be depended upon, it was this man.
There it was again. That ‘if.’ Could he trust anyone?
The Prophet shook the thought away.
“Kallem,” the Prophet said. “He has not returned?” He knew he hadn’t of course, but chose to lead with the question.
“No, Prophet. He has not.”
“I saw you talking to the hag at the gate.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I assume you questioned her?”
There were always questions, veiled and unveiled threats to these old women that came. But that wasn’t what the Prophet meant. Robinson knew this.
“Yes, sir. She’s seen nothing of the girls. Nothing of Kallem. Mac has returned with the hound. He said he left Kallem a day ago.”
The Prophet nodded, slowly. He was growing weary. The needle was having its effect and he’d need to sleep soon. Very soon. His mind was drifting back to Maree again. Her escape with the bleeder. Her insolence. Her punishment to come. He had to bri
ng her back. Had to get her back before the wound she’d inflicted became too deep to heal.
“I want you to go after her,” he said. “Take one man. No more than that, and go after Maree and Zophia, the bleeder.”
“Shall I take the dogs, Prophet?”
He pictured the hounds—those sleepy, stupid-looking piles of wrinkled flesh dozing in the sun of their kennels. Yet given a scent and a command, they would run for days. Run without food or water or rest, tugging a soldier along behind them, relentlessly following a trail that was days, sometimes weeks old. And when the trail grew hot and the dogs gave voice, the hunted quailed in terror, for they knew there was no escaping the Prophet’s reach.
“Yes, take the dogs.”
As Robinson stood aside, the Prophet looked down at the street below. Luvanne was walking past a gathering of soldiers. They called after her, tauntingly, but this time she did not lower her head in fear of their words. This time, she did not cover her face and the tears so ready to fall. She just continued her walk to the servants’ quarters and disappeared through its door. The Prophet was fading fast as the narcotic took its hold. But he gathered the strength to make one more command.
“Hurry, Robinson. There is no time to lose.”
~~~*~~~
To continue The Eleventh Commandment, look for subsequent episodes, to be released in quick succession:
Episode 2 of 4 – Bleeder.
Episode 3 of 4 – Society Three
Episode 4 of 4 – Reclaimed
Table of Contents
Copyright
Other Episodes in this Serial
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10