The Blood of Whisperers

by Devin Madson

  Slow steps came along the passage, the sound echoing back from the stones of my prison. I had spent the last few hours returning to the conversation with Kokoro, trying, without avail, to divine meaning from what he had said. I knew I was no traitor.

  A soldier stopped at the very edge of my cell. He was carrying a wooden bowl and a tense expression.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, reaching in quickly and dropping the bowl. Watery slop splashed over the side. ‘Are you really a demon?’

  I meant not to answer, but there was always the chance someone would listen. ‘No,’ I said, unsticking my tongue for the first time in hours. ‘I am no demon and I am no traitor.’

  The man nodded, though he hadn’t seemed to hear me. ‘What’s your name?’

  I pulled my legs up against my chest and said nothing. It would make no difference. He had already accepted my guilt.

  ‘The old man we brought in with you says your name is Endymion.’

  ‘Then perhaps that’s my name. Why ask me questions? You’re not listening anyway.’

  He took a step, no longer hiding behind the wall. ‘What about your family?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Killed them, did you?’

  I turned my head away, staring at the candlelight on my prison wall. The air was stale, chilly despite the summer beyond these stones. My watcher did not move.

  A scream sounded. It was distant, muted by the walls, yet I could feel its anguish. It came again, rising in pitch. Begging. Pleading. My skin grew cold; my insides hollow with dread.

  ‘What’s that?’

  The man grinned, stepping closer. ‘Your old man,’ he said, gripping the bars.

  Anger pulled me to my feet. ‘He told you my name, what more do you want? It says Endymion on my papers, doesn’t it?’

  His grin widened. ‘It sure does. But you see, we’re not as blind as you think. Those papers didn’t come from any governor. You’re a traitor and a demon, and now you have no name. Them further up don’t like that, if you catch me?’

  ‘Then why don’t you ask Father Kokoro who I am?’ I said, advancing on the man.

  He backed away from the bars, baring his teeth. ‘Stay back, freak.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you scared of me? Is that why you torture an innocent man? A priest?’ Each question spat from my lips, but Jian’s cries for mercy did not cease. ‘You want to know if I’m a demon? Come closer and I’ll show you.’

  The soldier spat on the stones, barely missing the fraying edges of his reed sandals. ‘I’ll see you burn first.’

  I gripped the bars, the cold metal doing nothing to cool my fury. ‘If I am condemned to burn anyway, what does it matter who I am?’

  ‘You want to know why?’ That grin was back. ‘Because the captain is in trouble in Mei’lian. He’s out of favour, so things like you are worth his skin to know about, if you catch me?’

  ‘I know only one name, and it’s the one you have. If you think I have another, ask Father Kokoro for it.’

  Jian’s screams died. The cessation of sound made my breath catch in my throat.

  ‘If he dies, you’ll be sorry,’ I said. ‘He is Father Kokoro’s brother, and Kokoro is a court priest. He has the ear of Emperor Kin himself.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you clever. I thought priests didn’t have brothers, but you’re the novice. You should know.’

  ‘I’m not a novice.’

  ‘No, you’re a demon. Now why don’t you tell me who you really are?’

  I stared back at his hungry expression. I had only one name. Jian had never been vociferous on the subject of family. All I knew was that my parents were dead, and although I had been born in Mei’lian, my name was Chiltaen for “lost sheep”.

  The soldier grunted. ‘Everyone breaks eventually,’ he said. ‘He’ll talk before his precious gods grant the mercy he begs for.’

  ‘How can he answer what he does not know? Let me talk to this captain of yours.’

  ‘You want me to bring him down here so you can practise your sorcery on him? I’m not that stupid.’

  ‘Aren’t you? You’ve been standing there awhile. Have I done anything to you?’

  He looked down, pressing his fingers to his chest as though expecting some part of himself to be missing. ‘What have you–’ he broke off, scowling. ‘Oh shivatsa, you freak me out. If you burn, I’ll light the fire myself.’

  ‘If I burn it won’t matter who lights it. But before you condemn me, I’ll talk to your captain.’

  With his scowl set in place the man walked away, leaving me to breathe the stodgy fumes of his fear.

  Once he had gone, I looked down at the bowl. It was full of porridge, the grains of golden millet cold to the touch. I was too hungry to ignore it, and trying to imagine it was something else, I dug the spoon in, shovelling it into my mouth and swallowing as fast as I could. When I had finished I reached through the bars to place the bowl in the passage, but it fell from my grip as another scream ripped through the building. The bowl rolled away, hitting the opposite wall. Between each agonised cry came a string of shrill words, words that were all too familiar. It was Qi’s invocation of death.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ I shouted, jumping up and shaking the bars. ‘How dare you torture a man who serves the gods? Let him go!’

  More footsteps came along the passage and another man approached my cell. He was dressed in the uniform of a soldier, but where most wore only a narrow sash to display their allegiance, this one had a thick band of crimson silk elaborately knotted over his scabbard. One hand sat upon his sword hilt.

  ‘There is no need to shout, prisoner,’ he said. ‘My name is Captain Ash. If you have something you wish to say then do so, my time is precious.’

  ‘Captain, I am not the important man you seem to think me,’ I said. ‘The only name I have is on my papers. Torturing Brother Jian will not change that.’

  ‘Your papers are forged. You have been arrested as a sorcerer and a traitor to the emperor. I cannot execute you without a name.’

  ‘Then ask Father Kokoro what it is, for I do not know.’

  ‘Father Kokoro does not know who you are, only that you attacked him.’

  ‘Attacked him?’

  The captain did not answer, just scratched his nose as though waiting for me to speak. Having removed his hand from his sword hilt, he seemed unsure what to do with it, and it hovered in front of him, a hesitant dragonfly above the smooth surface of a pond. How could I deny Kokoro’s accusations? I had attacked him, desperate for the truth.

  The captain shifted his weight and I stared at the dragon twisting along his sash. But Kokoro was not the only one who knew the truth. Lord Nyraek Laroth had known. He was dead, but he had a son.

  ‘Lord Darius Laroth,’ I said. ‘Ask him who I am.’

  My words shocked that hovering hand back to its place on the sword hilt. The captain laughed, and the spice of true amusement jolted through my Empathy. ‘The Monstrous Laroth? You want me to call the Monstrous Laroth here to identify you?’

  ‘Lord Darius Laroth, yes.’

  ‘A friend of yours?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then if I were you, I would go quietly to the stake rather than seek him out.’

  His words didn’t bode well. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ the captain repeated. ‘Have you heard none of the stories? He’s the living dead, they say. He stalks here and he stalks there, ripping thoughts right out of your head. He sold his soul to demons. He knows what you are going to do before you do. The Monstrous Laroth doesn’t eat, and he doesn’t sleep.’ Warming to his story, the captain grinned and touched his chest. ‘There is a scar where his heart should be. The story goes that someone stuck a knife into him–’ he lunged forward, imitating a killing blow ‘–right through his heart, and he didn’t shed a single drop of blood.’<
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  ‘Everyone bleeds.’

  The captain shook his head. ‘Not Minister Laroth. He has no heart. They say he killed his own father.’

  I thought of my saviour, of the single memory I had clung to for so many years. His breath had stirred my hair, drops of rain falling upon his hands as they held tight to the reins. ‘Why would he do that?’

  The captain shrugged his large shoulders. ‘Why not? They say the Laroth fortune is immense. Men have killed for less.’

  I hesitated, but if I was going to die, I would rather go to the gods knowing the truth. ‘Your stories don’t frighten me. He’s in Shimai with the court, isn’t he? Send for him.’

  ‘Send for Minister Laroth? He isn’t a stable boy. I won’t put my head on the block for you.’

  I pulled the pendant Lord Nyraek had given me, free of my clothing and unhooked the clasp. Then, not looking at it, I handed it through the bars. ‘Give him this. Tell him you took it from a man in your cells. I don’t think he will be able to ignore that.’

  The captain stared down at the eye in his hand. As though entranced, his gaze did not shift, not until the sound of footsteps drew him back and he clamped his hand closed. ‘No, I think you are right.’

  Saying nothing more he left, my only possession tucked in his fist.

  His footsteps faded and silence returned. I went back to my corner. It felt like an age since I had last slept, but sleep would not come easily here. I tried. I tried to curl myself up like a cat, but the stones dug into my shoulder and chilled my cheek. I tried to lie on my back but my head seemed to be the wrong shape. There was nothing soft, nothing to lure me toward sleep except fatigue. My whole body ached with the need to rest and, slowly, I felt myself slip toward oblivion.

  A succession of loud clangs jolted me awake. A guard was walking past my cell. He held a wooden baton, letting it strike each bar as he passed. When he reached the end of the passage he stopped. ‘Sorry about that, freak. Did I wake you?’

  Calm, I told myself. Don’t say anything.

  I laid my head back down on my arm. Now far more awake, I could feel every point at which my bones dug into the floor and tried to find a more comfortable position. As soon as I settled, the clanging started again. The man was walking back the other way.

  Exhaustion leaked from my every pore, but it was some minutes before I could sleep again. Perhaps I managed it for a moment, or was once more on its cusp before the sound came again.

  ‘Hey, freak,’ another voice said. ‘I hear you’re the whore-son of a priest. No wonder you’re a freak.’

  There was laughter, then another voice added: ‘Do you know what we do to bastards of Oath Men?’

  I didn’t move. Just in case I had managed to find sleep, they banged on the bars again. ‘Do you, freak?’

  Calm.

  Jian had always counselled me to keep calm. When I was young he had made me chant it like a mantra whenever the cruelty of the world became too much.

  ‘We’ll start by pulling off your fingernails, one at a time, inch by inch.’

  I closed my eyes. Some years ago there had been a man in one of the border towns, vociferous in his support of Emperor Kin’s claim to the throne. It won him few friends in a time of upheaval, when many of the northern towns held out for Otako support.

  ‘Then we’ll stick hot needles through the tips of your fingers.’

  They were laughing. That man had laughed too. ‘It was high time for change,’ he had said. ‘Gods? Is that their excuse for rutting each other like rabbits? Empress Li must have been the most used whore in Kisia. So many royal whelps, all with a different face to show the world.’

  His bile had been like poison, and the anger of the crowd had been more than I could cope with. It had taken Jian’s grip on my collar to keep me from rushing at him with the rest. The man had been much bigger than me and buoyed up by drink, but I would have bitten him and ripped out his hair if I could do no worse.

  Calm.

  The guards banged on the bars again. ‘Hey, freak, are you listening? We’ll make sure you burn real slow. We’ll make sure you feel your skin blister and pull away from the soles of your feet.’

  ‘Do you know what burning flesh smells like, freak?’

  Clang.

  ‘It’s a smell you won’t forget until the day you die.’ They were laughing. ‘At least for you that won’t be very long.’

  Clang. Clang.

  ‘I hear that Minister Laroth eats his prey alive. Piece by piece. First he peels the skin from your fingers. Then he bites off the tips, crunching through the bone and chewing it raw. Up to the first knuckle, then the second, then he’s shaving slivers of flesh off your palms and dabbing the blood from his chin with a silk handkerchief.’

  All I wanted to do was sleep, but the words churned about me, the images as vivid as dreams. I could see the minister in my mind, a large, monstrous figure, tall and broad, his heavy features fearsome. This man dressed as a soldier, his armour covered in a glittering black surcoat. He laughed, he mocked, and in his hand he held a man’s leg, roasted over a spit. The man himself watched on, helpless, as the Monstrous Laroth consumed his limb, its juices dripping down his chin.

  Clang.

  ‘Are you still trying to sleep, freak?’

  ‘You’ll have plenty of time to rest when your body is turned to ash.’

  Their aggression was so heavy I could smell it. There was fear and anger, too, but it was fading, being sucked into the great cauldron of cruelty. Their blood was hot, their hearts pounding. They were so excited their cocks hardened against the fabric of their breeches. If I move, I thought. If I make a single sign of weakness, they will tear me apart.

  Grateful for the bars, I tried to sleep. After a time I found I could ignore their words, let it become a lullaby that rocked me to a terrible sleep, but they would never let me manage more than a few minutes at a time. For what felt like an age in this timeless hell they took turns strolling past my cell, banging their batons on the bars and throwing out choice taunts to the acclaim of all. They even began to laugh at one another, turning on comrades who showed less enthusiasm for such torture, until every dozing moment was filled with noise.

  ‘Hey, demon, your mother must have been a godless whore to bed a priest.’

  ‘Maybe his father was the stable-boy and the priest just took pity on him.’

  Calm.

  I spoke the word, but anger stirred in my blood, waking me from my doze. It felt as though hours had passed.

  ‘No, he was the old sweeper,’ another said.

  Calm.

  ‘I’ve heard that demons are the children of dead men. I guess that means your mother was such a whore she mounted a corpse. Anything hard would do for her, it didn’t even have to be warm.’

  I was up, chest slamming into the bars before I could even think. ‘You disgusting little maggots,’ I snarled, grabbing at one through the bars. ‘Come in here and say that. Just come a little closer and I’ll make sure you never speak again.’

  The fury bled from me and the dozen guards outside my cell leapt back. ‘Are you threatening us, freak?’

  ‘Just come closer, I dare you,’ I said. ‘What’s one little freak going to do to you, huh? Son of a stable-boy. Look at him, he’s so runty, all skin and bones, let’s pick on him because he can’t fight back.’ I spat through the bars. ‘If you are the emperor’s men, I weep for Kisia.’

  A shout echoed along the passage and every head turned. Running steps grew louder. ‘The minister! The minister is here.’

  The guards’ unspoken leader blanched. ‘So soon?’ He pushed through his knot of men. ‘Let’s go. I don’t want to be dessert.’

  ‘Hey!’ I shouted after them, each man dashing off at a fast trot along the passage. ‘Where are you going?’

  No one answered. I felt deflated, robbed of m
y fury. Running steps passed back and forth above me. Then silence. The whole building stilled, as though even the stone held its breath. The minister was coming. How long had it taken a message to reach him? It was hard to know how long I had been stuck within these walls. Perhaps it had been years and he was only now getting around to dealing with the nuisance nobody.

  Out of the silence came the sound of slow steps, each the loud, staccato clack of a wooden sandal on the stones. A shuffling companion followed, the air stiff with nervous tension. I listened, my imagination darting back to the monstrous figure with the dark eyes.

  The captain came into view, lips caught in a grim line. ‘Prisoner,’ he said, once again resting his hand upon his sword hilt. ‘Bow before His Excellency, Lord Darius Laroth, the Sixth Count of Esvar and Minister of the Left.’

  The man of my imagination died. Here was no burly warrior, no harsh-featured monster. Lord Laroth was fine and slight with skin like cream. He wore his silk robe with neat precision, every line so straight he was more statue than man. Never had I seen a more beautiful face than the one now watching me, yet there was no smile, no life in his cold, violet eyes.

  He turned to face me, his sandal scraping on the stone. ‘You do not bow,’ he said, speaking in a voice that might have been ripped from my memory. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  Dozens of guards were crammed into the neck of the passage, watching.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You are Lord Darius Laroth.’

  ‘And yet you do not bow.’

  Unsure now, I shook my head. ‘If I am already a dead man, what does it matter?’

  The minister came a step closer. He looked like a picture, his face as immobile as a doll. I could read nothing in it, and resorted to my sixth sense. Like a formless hand my Empathy reached out toward him, drinking in everything it found. Worry hung about the captain, and his guards pervaded hunger, but the minister had nothing.

  Lord Laroth regarded me steadily. He did not move. He did not tap or twitch or scratch, his body guilty of nothing but the occasional blink and even that seemed deliberate.

  ‘If you are already dead then why am I here?’