"... Are you going to faint?” sneered Andreas. “Are you a girl as well? How many dead in Delia? "
"I—I don't remember. My family lives in Delia District, sir—"
"You’re deaf as well as stupid. Use that ear or you deserve to lose it. Where's Mathias?"
"He's gone to Salacia. The team from Delia is on its way here.” He coughed.
"—Good. Enough. Go and help with the fires and then get yourself home. Stop by the castle if the bridge is down. Ask for Kalorn—best medic I have. He’s a git, but I’d never risk losing him on the field. Bring your family if they need treatment."
The boy scampered off. There were no thanks—not for the medic, and not for the slap in the face. Andreas followed tiredly through the wreckage until he relocated his team, and wordlessly grabbed a bucket.
Dousing the fires was tedious and gruelling. There was nothing here that deserved the violent consideration he’d shown the young recruit, so why couldn’t he bring himself to walk away while the buildings still burned?
… Perhaps it was that unlike the boy, he had no choice in where he spent his energy, his life force. He’d spend the rest of his nightmarish existence trying to keep this wretched place from toppling off the edge.
Nothing here deserved to be saved—but he was part of this nothing, damned and rightly so. After all, he’d thrown his conscience into the chasm that opened inside his own heart as he’d kissed his mother’s cold forehead more than two decades ago, enclosing her body in its casket. What was left of him was as charred and eviscerated as the wreckage around him.
The city had become his tomb.
A crash of thunder shook the heavens, and the sky rumbled and deepened with colour and let loose a torrent of rain.
He collapsed gratefully under one of the few awnings that were still standing, and closed his scalded eyes.
Just for a moment, he’d allow himself a breath that was his and his alone. Two decades of falling, and he’d learned one thing: there was always another precipice, and he still had to take the time to drag himself back or he’d fall even further down the endless decline. Smoke and steam drifted away overhead. Gravity quadrupled. Beyond the beating of the rain, another sound rose from the streets and the houses, a low note submerged beneath it like an ocean, yet calling out plaintively above it.
The sound of crying. A whole city crying.
He hauled himself to his feet as the iron bell of the clocktower struck its beaten, time-worn blows into his soul, and wandered through the clearing haze until he sensed a familiar, friendly musk among the odours of death and leaned gratefully into Seleda's blood-streaked mane.
~~~
Stationary beside the fireplace and feeling exceptionally useless, Julia watched the whirlwind of activity in the great hall.
When the drawbridge was raised, the curious rabble had been trapped inside the castle, men and women who had wandered in off the streets in search of refuge, answers or accountability. Some had children in tow, crying, screaming, or scampering underfoot. They milled about in their frustration, knocking into the walls and one another, cursing and railing like rats in a cage.
“What, three attacks!”
“… We live in Delia—”
“We need to get OUT of here! Our house is just a block from there.”
A toxic smile bloomed on her cheeks, silent laughter corroding her throat. In a few hours or days, they would be out of here, safely back in their cute little homes. And if they lost those homes to the fires? Lord Telyra would replace them.
Years after they were gone, she’d still be standing here beside the fireplace, as still and lifeless as the stones in the walls, staring out at the bright expanse through the exit to the drawbridge. No bolted doors would bar her way, no moat would stop her.
She carried her prison with her always, locked around her neck.
Leaning against the mantelpiece, she felt disconnected, adrift—apart from things.
She wanted to help, but each time she thought she’d spotted an opportunity, somebody else rushed past, jostling her like debris. It was strange wanting to do something. Any other day, when nothing mattered? They’d find her a million meaningless chores to fill her time. Yet today, when everybody desperately seemed to need an extra hand, when it would actually mean something, she’d received not a single order, hardly even a glance. How could that be?
Maybe she really had been here so long that she was dissolving into the walls.
… And so I’m as useless as this lot, she thought, listening the endless chuntering prattle.
“Did the Modest Barrel escape the blaze?” “—Who cares about a dirty old tavern? What about the clocktower?” “—It’s not a dirty old tavern—” "... Best fucking news all year! My son wants to be an artisan, the stupid sod. War’ll make a man out of him.”
She snickered. So says Lord Telyra’s gardener.
"... Loren, that dirty old maggot! His son's worse though. Hear he's a right good fighter, that 'un. I reckon we'll be seeing a new Lord Loren by dusk tomorrow!" "Dusk? Haha. Telyra doesn't need that long to dispatch anyone, least of all a stupid old cripple. Or his overconfident son." "I heard old Loren's too sick to do any lordin' and he’s gonna die anyway, so he's pullin’ this last stunt to go out in a blaze of glory. If you call being impaled by our Lord's sword glorious."
She froze, her tepid smile faltering. The spell of invisibility had worn off; the speaker’s jeering eyes were boring into hers, laughter twisting his visage. She didn’t have a clue who he was, but clearly he’d already discovered the laughingstock of the citadel. Fury burning in her cheeks, she shoved past him into the middle of the hall.
Dorthelda’s voice surfaced above the din. "... Take this to Kalorn dear, fast; it’s a tourniquet—"
Julia turned, half-thinking the order was meant for her, but no—
That was Theresee.
… Not the same Theresee. She was taller now, the structure of her face more mature, her brow more prominent. She still had the same golden curls, but they trailed down her back, almost to her waist. Only the wide brass collar around her neck, a twin to her own, had been untouched by time.
Drawn after her as helplessly as a kite on a line, she squeezed through the crowd toward the north wall, thinking of the numerous times she’d glimpsed her over the past few years, but always at a distance, down a hallway or across a crowded room. Theresee had become as distant as Lord Telyra had been in the first decade of her life, a stranger. It was enough to make her think there must be whole other countries hidden away in the rooms of this castle.
Theresee was balancing a steaming bowl of soup along with the cravat that Dorthelda had handed her. Shifting the soup aside, she proffered the cravat to the man who stooped by the wall, his hands gleaming cherry bright.
Eyes wide, Julia stumbled.
… Only now did her mind register the thrashing, deformed shape on the floor, the leg gushing blood all over the cot, the white linens blooming scarlet like poppies in a patch of snow. The raucous din of the crowd was so overwhelming that she hadn’t even heard the screams, hadn’t realized part of the hall had been converted into a medical ward. And she wasn’t the only one—hardly anybody seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention.
Kalorn never even looked up at Theresee. Shaking his head at the soup, he grabbed the sash and shooed her away. Then she saw a gleam of metal—his right hand was closing around the handle of a saw, his left pressing down on the man’s thigh.
The patient exploded into a storm of incoherent shrieks. Squealing involuntarily, she turned away.
Somebody knocked her shoulder. Golden curls caught the light.
"Theresee—!"
The older girl’s name slipped out of her mouth unbidden.
The golden-haired girl halted, turning slowly.
"—What?"
The word cut the air, a verbal slap in the face.
She bit her lip; her cheeks actually stung. "Does Kalorn need any help? I can—"
"You can't do anything,” Theresee interrupted contemptuously. “Except stand there covering your bruises and worrying after that asshole. Get your priorities straight."
The beautiful green eyes that had once laughed with her, confided in her, had blackened.
Flinching self-consciously, Julia dropped her arms to her sides. "That’s not what I’m doing,” she said defensively. “Aren’t you worried?"
"No! Why should I be? I'm a slave in his house, like you. He can burn in hell, like this fortress, like this whole gods-damned place! You can too, you filthy traitor.”
The words were fire; they scalded down her cheeks. Desperately she swallowed, trying to stop the tears, but the harder she tried, the more freely they streamed. The other girl watched without sympathy, her lip curling.
Blood was spilling across the flagstones, seeping into the cracks. Kalorn and his assistant had moved on to their next victim. She stared at it hard, refusing to look up, as if she could dissolve the tears and the pain by losing herself in the amputee’s misery. The leg was still lying there, ghastly and horrible. The man was roaring like an animal, his eyes locked on his severed appendage. Nobody seemed to care. To him it was still his leg, stolen from him forever—to them, it was nothing, an object, trash.
"What'd I ever do to you, Theresee? You were my best friend!" she shouted above his bloodcurdling shrieks, forcing herself to turn back. “You were the one who stopped talking to me. We were like sisters!”
"... And now you have no one,” Theresee replied, her voice as cold as stone. “You moved out! You left me there. You live in the basement, not in the damn linen closet with me. You betrayed your kind and you get what you deserve … I hope he dies. Then I can be free—and you can be lost."
"I didn't—I tried to tell you. If you’d just talked to him, he would’ve—"
"—What, made me his lap dog too?” She snorted with laughter. “Really …? You do nothing, all day long! You sleep ten hours a day. The rest of the time, you do everything in your power not to lift a finger. Keep doing it.”
She wanted to retaliate, to scream at her, but the knot in her throat was a gag, choking her words like her earlier stillborn laughter.
I don’t owe anyone ANYTHING, and neither do YOU.
She reached for her back as Theresee spun around, her hair whipping through the air, but she was already gone, swallowed up by the crowd.
So that was it. And it wasn’t just Theresee. It was everybody. They’d made a joint decision to leave her out.
They wanted her to know just how worthless and unwanted she was.
And still, here I am.
This time she did laugh.
A hand grabbed her arm, digging into the crease of her elbow.
"Hey, cut it out!" she snapped.
Thomas shoved her forward. "Telyra wants you.”
His companion, a pudgy, dark haired maid from the laundry room, laughed wildly and reached out, smacking her across the shoulders. She leaned on Thomas’ shoulder, clearly piss drunk, her face as ruddy as a sow’s.
"I can walk!" she exclaimed through their hilarity, wiping her damp cheeks as she fought her way through.
… He was back.
She hadn’t noticed the light spilling in through the open doors. Craning to see above the crowd, she spotted his silhouette atop his horse, clear above the racket and the insanity. Like a beacon of order and reason.
… Well, maybe not reason.
But he was back.
She approached him, the man who held her invisible chains wrapped around his fist. The hard light from outside revealed blood dripping from his hairline, the flesh of his face pink and raw over his high cheekbone.
"Master?" she called up to him, stroking Seleda’s neck.
The mare sneezed and shook her head, scattering droplets of blood to the floor like discarded rubies. Her eye was a black, burning furnace of malevolence.
Lord Telyra stripped off his bracers, his eyes on the crowd, either as unmindful of her existence as everyone else, or indifferent to it, as she could almost believe these days. One sleeve was stained black on the underside, still dripping, and he swayed precariously in the saddle. Dark streaks down his leather breastplate spoke of death at his hands. Straightening, he raised one pale hand to his audience in a blood-caked salute.
“… Said SHUT IT,” he roared.
The heads nearest turned, and gradually, silence settled over the hall, broken only by the moans of the wounded and the rustle and clatter of Kalorn's relentless exertion. The smell of iron was thick on the air.
Something—she blinked—yes, something definitely was moving under Lord Telyra’s cloak—and whimpering. His other arm clutched at it, restraining it.
“Master, what is that—”
"You are all wondering what the hell is going on,” he intoned.
Murmurs of agreement.
“The wounded are being treated there—" he pointed. "Kalorn's work takes priority. Any among you who allows another's pain be prolonged through negligence will receive that same pain back from me in exacting proportion once this is over. Those who need to help, do so now."
Several attendants near the back of the crowd scuttled to the cots.
"We have posted a list on that wall,” he pointed, “with the death count on our side, and the names we know. The list is short, but that will not last.
"To forestall any rumours … two hours ago, Loren soldiers lit the marketplace on fire and burned two city blocks to the ground. They also set fire to the Delia residential district and Salacia Square. The fires in all three districts are out and the dogs responsible are dead. We have lost a few homes but no one will be sleeping in the streets tonight. The homeless will be put up here in the castle until their homes can be rebuilt. I will pay for the repairs myself out of the city coffers. Same goes for businesses."
"But how did they get in?" shouted a woman.
Lord Telyra raised his hand for silence. The thing under his cloak wailed piercingly, the fabric billowing with movement. What could it be? An injured animal? A dog?
"They were here for years,” he answered, adjusting himself. “During our truce I accepted transplants from Loren’s side of the city in the hopes of fostering our economy and building new relationships. This was the result. I was wrong. And I am sorry.”
"Is the Modest Bar—"
"The Modest Barrel is still standing and the owner is fine, yes."
"How many are on that list?"
"Fifteen. Three soldiers. The rest … civilians. Murdered in cold blood. Most of them were defenceless or close to it."
"Was anyone from Calthaca hurt?" asked a boy.
"How many of theirs?" demanded a man from across the room.
"Twenty-four at the last report, and no. I repeat ... The Market, Delia, and Salacia. Not Calthaca. The drawbridge is down. Any of you who wish to leave should do so now. It’s coming back up behind me—which is about five minutes from now. However, I suggest you stay. Loren’s men are still in the city."
“… Are we at war then?"
"—Give me some of that Loren scum—"
"Yeah Thomas!"
"You are a footman, Thomas," Lord Telyra cut in kindly, “and not the kind who fights on foot. We are at war with Malek Loren. But as I'm going to kill him tonight …”
—Smothered laughter from the crowd—
"I have yet to say if we are at war with his successor," he finished to groans of dismay.
"We’ve lost parents, grandparents, sons! You can’t ask us not to fight!”
"They killed my niece!" cried another. "Nine years ago."
"—And I am doing all I can to ensure that it doesn’t happen again. Don't you see that you're part of this too?"
"Put down the Loren dogs!”
"I thank you all for your enthusiasm, but we are wasting precious time. Do I need to remind you all that this is not a mob rule? Back to work all of you. Your excitement is over."
Turning aside, he lower
ed his voice. "Now I need to ask—”
Julia jumped.
"What?" he asked, with a disconcerting, blood-streaked smile.
"I kinda... forgot I was here." She gave a nervous laugh. “Or I thought you did.”
"If I were nobody, I'd probably forget myself too …” He broke off. “Are you all right? You look—"
"Yeah, I’m fine. And you didn't forget me. Doesn’t that make me somebody?"
"I could no sooner forget you than a rat at my feet. Take a fucking bath." He leaned toward her and sniffed. "Disgusting."
"Dorthelda says that baths give you colds, and they should be taken as seldom as possible."
"Superstitious nonsense. We’ve been over this."
“I took a bath yesterday. So you’re full of shit.”
“I know.”
"And you're drippin’ blood on me," she added with a mock shudder.
"Now you have to take one. Unless you want to be infected by some hideous foreign disease from across the Wall." He mimicked her shudder.
"You're probably already in the advanced stages. Bet it strikes you dead before you can even find Lord Loren on the battlefield."
"You think you're smart?"
"Why shouldn't I be? You taught me everything I know."
"Maybe I deliberately taught you stupid. Now … I have a job for you."
He pushed his cloak aside and Julia stepped backward in surprise.
It wasn’t an animal at all.
It was a baby, naked, raw and red, clothed only in a sheet of drying mud. Exposed again to the light of day, it launched into a fresh, miserable fit, face scrunching up with the effort of its tears.
"Is he hurt?"
"Don't think so. Not seriously. You can ask the damn doctor. Fucking doctor. I found it when I was leaving Salacia."
“Found it? Found it where?”
“… In a gutter. Abandoned. Perhaps its parents were killed. Or maybe they left it during the attacks.” He paused significantly. “… Or before the attacks.”
Awkwardly, he held out the flailing child, and half-dropped it into her arms.
She gasped, startled. "What am I supposed to do with it? It's kicking me."
Talystasia: A Faerytale Page 8