Shadow (Bridge & Sword: Awakenings #4): Bridge & Sword World

by JC Andrijeski

  It takes another few seconds before sound returns to his awareness, before he hears anything but his own breaths, hollow in his ears. The echo of the gun continues to linger in the valley, just like the smoke that dissipates in the cold air.

  Then Merenje lets out a half-laughing whoop.

  He jumps up from where he’s been leaning against the wooden sawhorses set up to hold the saddles for his uncle’s small herd. Merenje laughs again before the boy turns his head, his voice holding a thread of disbelief even under the alcohol.

  “Holy damn! The little shit actually did it!”

  He is laughing again when Menlim’s voice pulls the boy’s head in his direction.

  “Very good, nephew.”

  He nods in approval when the boy turns, but his eyes are hard, still focused on his face with a scrutiny that sees through the boy’s lack of expression.

  “…But I think the lesson is still not there,” he adds softly. “I think this is a compromise for you, yes? That you are still missing the point of this little exercise?”

  The boy feels his hands go cold.

  He looks down at the gun he still holds, unable to make his eyes go to the body of the girl.

  “You want me to do another,” he says.

  The uncle only motions to Merenje, clicking to him as he gestures, speaking to him in that other language, the one from Merenje’s place of birth.

  “Bring her,” he says. “We will do this now. Get it done.” He looks again at the boy. “I can see he is ready. That he understands the need for it, at least.”

  Merenje grins, pushing off from the sawhorse as he whistles, pressing two of his fingers against his lips, on either side of his mouth. The whistle is loud and two of the others, two who are newer than Merenje, but cut from the same cloth, bring the next one.

  The boy doesn’t know their names.

  He barely looks at them as Merenje's men drag another human into the clearing from behind the stone wall, this one bound as well, her face bruised along one side, eyes wide in her face.

  He understands the point of the drinking now, though.

  They came for the show.

  None of the understanding in Gisele’s face lives in the face of the second. Fear explodes over her features, eclipsing all else. There is no begging, no comprehension. She sees the dead body of Gisele and screams from behind the gag, fighting the men holding her in a writhing, mindless panic.

  The boy blanks out his mind.

  They’ve barely got her kneeling on the ground before he raises the gun, using the grid behind his eyes to aim at her heart.

  He fires before anything penetrates that fog.

  The girl crumples. He looks at his uncle, and knows the meaning of the expression even before he speaks.

  “Again,” his uncle says, motioning to Merenje.

  The human laughs, making a circular motion over his head to the other two, telling them to bring another, jerking his head towards the space behind the stone wall.

  Looking down at the gun, the boy only clenches his jaw, checking the bullets in the round chamber before pushing the wheel back closed. Cocking it, he is ready when they bring up the next one. He barely notes the face, other than to see that this one is older. A man with graying hair, blood on the front of his shirt.

  He shoots that one in the head, like Gisele.

  “Again,” his uncle says, as the smoke clears.

  The boy is no longer there. A part of him is gone, drifting up above the clearing behind the gray stone house, watching from above as he empties out the gun, then fills it again, his fingers steady, eyes vacant as he watches from that other place.

  He hears only one thing after every pull of the trigger, sees only one thing.

  It is the low purr of his uncle’s voice, the steady look in his yellow eyes.

  “Again, Merenje,” he says, his eyes never leaving the boy’s face. “Bring the next one.”

  The boy raises the gun, waiting for them to arrange each human inside the kill zone in front of him.

  His mind is relaxed now, almost at peace.

  33

  BURIAL

  …AND IT IS dark. He is alone, and it is cold.

  The ground is hard.

  He digs with a metal shovel at first, sweating in the cold, his back aching with the strain. It seems to take forever. He wonders if he is in the right spot, if he somehow got confused in the dark, when his shovel tip hits the first of them.

  He has to use his hands then, working as fast as he can, excavating only with the edge of the shovel where enough space lives between torsos, heads and limbs, and then only to save time.

  He doesn’t have much time.

  He finds her after what feels like hours, after he is covered with dirt, surrounded by the stench of death, the smell of decay filling his nose until he feels like he is one of them.

  It is only the first part of what he needs to do.

  Uncovering the body carefully with his hands, he eventually clears enough away that he can lift her, throwing her over the saddle of one of the horses he has with him. After he fills the hole, making it look as it had before he started, he ties her down, fighting not to breathe, wincing at the stiffness of her limbs as he ties cords around her hands.

  He feels sick briefly, fights nausea, his hand over his mouth.

  Then he remember his uncle’s voice, the words he spoke to him only the day before, and his hands steady, even as he grits his teeth.

  He finishes lashing her down and leads the horse back to the tree. He mounts the other horse he brought with him. He has a few hours’ ride, and it is well past midnight now.

  He has to hurry.

  SUNLIGHT SWIRLS, ILLUMINATING a gaunt face, pale skin stretched over bone. Cold, yellow eyes watch him from across a wooden table.

  In the morning, especially on a day like this one, his uncle always looks older.

  A human cooks for them, and the boy drinks coffee, grimacing against the taste as he wipes his mouth. He has never liked coffee, but it is the norm to drink it here, so he is teaching himself. He avoids the seer’s stare until his uncle addresses him directly.

  “She is dead?” His voice holds a faint lilt of surprise. “You did this on your own, nephew?”

  “On my own?” The boy looks at the old seer, his mouth a hard line. “You told me to.”

  “I told you it might be necessary,” the old seer concedes. “Yes.”

  “So? Is that not the same thing?” Nenzi’s eyes drop to the table, even as his jaw hardens. “Since when have your ‘suggestions’ been anything other than orders, Uncle?”

  Hearing the edge creep sharper into his voice, he falls silent, frowning at the plate of eggs the human cook places in front of him. Pulling apart a roll to butter it, he ignores Merenje’s eyes from the other side of the kitchen.

  The human sits in the window box, smoking a cigarette through the open glass, listening to them talk.

  “I took care of it,” Nenzi mutters. “You said we had to move soon, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” The seer clicks softly, glancing at Merenje. “Yes, I did.”

  The boy catches the look between them.

  “And her body is where, nephew?” he asks politely.

  “I told you. Under an oak tree in the old forest. Near where it forks for Ruchnell.”

  Merenje raises an eyebrow at the old man, lips quirking, but the old seer turns back to look at the boy, his expression unchanging.

  “When did you do this, nephew?”

  The boy pauses, as if thinking. He frowns. “Not long after you said it. Maybe a day or two after. Not longer.”

  His uncle doesn’t answer, but continues to stare at his face.

  The boy forces his eyes to his plate, then his fork to capture some of the eggs lying upon it. He eats silently, without letting his mind think about what he puts into his mouth, without looking at the food, or using his light on it.

  “Does her death distress you, nephew?” the old seer asks.


  He feels his jaw harden. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “She was my friend.”

  His uncle clicks at him softly. “We have spoken about this, nephew.”

  “I know.” He digs his fork back into the food on his plate, letting his expression harden. “But Kuchta was different. She was my friend. I don’t care if she was human. I don’t care if that means I was ‘attached.’ She was my friend.”

  His uncle clicks at him.

  This time, the sound is faintly sympathetic.

  “Your heart does you credit, nephew,” he says softly. “But this self-delusion must be corrected, if you are to fulfill the whole of your work here.”

  “It is not heart,” he says, giving the old seer a warning look. “I observe. I see who she is, and I respond. She was a good friend to me. Better than any other I have had.”

  “She was human.”

  “I do not care.”

  “You should care, nephew. For it could mean your death, if you don’t. You cannot ever trust them, nephew. Not really. Not in the way you would clearly like to believe.”

  The boy doesn’t answer. He stares out the window of the stone house, holding his fork in one hand as he watches the birds in the trees outside.

  “Their minds are so weak,” his uncle reminds him. “They will betray you without even meaning to, nephew. Any seer can push them into betraying you, without them even knowing they have been pushed. They could be pushed into putting a gun to your head, pulling the trigger. They would betray their own children––their own spouses and parents.”

  “I know. You have said all of this.”

  “You have seen it, nephew. You have seen it with your own eyes… with your light. You see it weekly from what I hear, in the humans in town.” He smiles faintly. “You see it with the humans you coerce into your bed.”

  The boy doesn’t look up, swallowing another mouthful of eggs, right before he reaches for a piece of the thick toast.

  “I took care of it, didn’t I?” He glares at the old seer. “I did as you asked. Don’t ask me to like it. Don’t, Uncle. Not today. I am not in the mood to lie.”

  The old seer’s eyes continue to study his face.

  The boy’s expression doesn’t change as he eats.

  After another pause, his uncle purrs again, clicking softly, as if to himself.

  He dismisses their previous conversation with a wave of his long, white fingers, leaning back on the wooden bench.

  “Very well,” he says. His eyes return to the boy’s face. The scrutiny in them is lessened now, if not entirely absent. “Are all of the loose ends tied up? With your human school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we can train tonight? You and I?”

  The younger seer hesitates, then looks up at the other.

  “I had thought we would train today,” he says, his voice cagey.

  The human in the window box laughs, exhaling smoke. “Busy tonight, pup?” When the boy only gives him a cold look, still chewing his bread, the human laughs louder. “Go on. Tell him. Tell him what you’ve been doing at night, lad.”

  When Nenzi glances over, the old seer is watching him, his yellow eyes incurious. One of his eyebrows rise on his long forehead, pulling up the skin.

  “Is there something you’d like to tell me, nephew?”

  When Nenzi only shakes his head, gesturing negative, the human laughs again.

  “He’s fighting at night. On the street. Winning not a small amount of change, too, from what I hear.” Hopping down off the window seat, the human walks to the stove, pouring himself more coffee from the long-handled pot on the burner. “Where’s our share of it, runt? Seeing as how it’s our training you’ve got under you, helping you win?”

  Menlim doesn’t take his eyes off the boy’s face. “Is this true, Nenzi?”

  The younger seer shrugs, chewing bread without looking up.

  “So what’s the money for, runt?” Merenje laughs. “You want to buy another girl of your very own?”

  The younger seer doesn’t look at him. His eyes return to the window.

  Menlim watches him for another moment, then sighs, clicking softly.

  “We will work today then,” he says. “Is that agreeable to you?”

  Fighting not to let his surprise show, the younger seer nods. “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Good.” He steeples his fingers, resting them against his chest. “And you have been practicing? For the exercises today?”

  A shadow crosses the other’s eyes, but he nods. “Yes.”

  “Any progress?”

  Nenzi doesn’t look at him for a moment. When the seer’s light darts out, touching his, he flinches, turning his eyes to face his uncle across the table.

  “No.”

  “Nenzi.” Menlim watches him, his eyes pensive where he leans against the bench. “We are running out of time. The pre-manipulatory work is finished. I have taught you everything I can. I have done everything I can think of to try to induce it in you.”

  The boy gestures dismissively. “I know you have. I will spend more time with it, Uncle.”

  “There can be no more delays with this, nephew.”

  “I understand.”

  The old seer continues to stare at him, his eyes motionless.

  “I know you do not want me to seek out further motivations,” he says, softer. “Things that might speed the process.”

  The younger man looks at him, his mouth hard.

  “No, Uncle. I don’t.”

  “Then we will pray for success together, yes? The two of us?”

  Nenzi’s eyes are hard when he looks up, almost as hard as those of the human who watches them both from a darker corner of the room. Nenzi sees the ember of the human’s cigarette glow from that same corner, lighting his dark eyes; he feels the human’s stare, but doesn’t return it.

  His expression doesn’t move as he meets the motionless gaze of his guardian.

  “I will pray with you, Uncle,” is all he says.

  His voice, when he speaks next, even carries feeling in it, whispers off the stronger pulse of his light.

  The uncle feels it, and his eyes narrow slightly as he scans the light of the younger seer.

  When they begin to speak, even the birds outside seem to grow quiet.

  Iltere ak selen’te dur Hulen-ta

  Isre arendelan ti’ a rigalem

  Ut isthre ag tem degri

  Y’enj balente ut re mugre di ali

  Isre rata s’u threk Ralhe t’u rigalem

  Isre arendelir d’goro anse vikrenme

  Isre l’ange si nedri az’lenm

  Isre ti’a ali di’ suletuum...

  The One God oversees his steps

  Knowing the destiny of the one is harder

  For to lead is sacrifice

  Lost in the tides of time and meaning

  He follows unto the Bridge’s first light

  A spark, in darkness

  When he learns that hardness overcomes

  And that all what he has done

  He has done for the greater good…

  When he reaches the part about her, something in his voice catches.

  But he doesn’t lose the words.

  Their voices echo together in the morning air as they finish.

  He manages to recite every word along with the old seer, and when they are done, Menlim is still staring at him, his yellow eyes motionless. He doesn’t move as the boy resumes eating, doesn’t turn his gaze from the younger, rounder face.

  The boy feels it, but he pretends not to notice.

  34

  ANSWERING THE CALL

  HE IS CRYING.

  I am with him this time, so lost in him I can’t feel anything else.

  I can’t even see him.

  I see his hands, our hands, in his lap. I see the coarse coat he wears, the splatter of blood on his off-white shirt. He holds the gun in both of his hands, cradling it almost, the barrel on the lap of the dark
spun pants with the holes in the knees.

  He looks up at the rusted warehouse, and he can’t see past its broken walls.

  He’s come out here.

  He’s come out here before, when his uncle isn’t around. When he isn’t being watched.

  It is one place he uses to be alone.

  He sits there and I feel what he wants to do. I feel him wrestle with it, and a part of me fights him, even though the time is past––even though this moment has already happened. I cannot reach him, cannot reason with him.

  I can only be there, inside of him, when he first puts the gun to his head.

  He holds it there, cocking it. His finger trembles by the trigger, and I feel the thoughts on him, the pain in his light. He remembers his parents, but that is dim now, too.

  He remembers Gisele.

  The pain worsens, until he can barely breathe. He has let the gun drop in the pause, but he raises it again, placing it against the side of his head.

  He closes his eyes…

  “Nenzi!”

  He lets out an exhale, and anger replaces the other. He lets the gun drop to his lap once more, but he doesn’t un-cock it, or take his finger off the trigger.

  “Nenzi, what are you doing?”

  “Go away!” he says. “Leave me alone.”

  But the old seer only stands there, silent in the waving grass. How he came upon him without being heard, without being seen––but the boy doesn’t care about that either. He isn’t a boy anymore. He is old enough to decide to die.

  “Are you so sure of that, nephew?” Menlim asks.

  Nenzi doesn’t think about his words; he doesn’t want to. His voice comes out angry, a near snarl. A voice he never uses with the old seer.

  “You won’t have any reason to do it anymore,” he says. “You’ll stop killing them, with me gone. You won’t have any reason to do it anymore.”

  There is a silence.

  Then the old seer clicks softly, sitting gracefully on a stone not far from where the younger seer sits. His eyes hold no anger, only a kind of thoughtful patience.

  “You missed your lesson today.”