by Posey, Jay
“No sweat, Ace,” he said.
“Cass, I need you on that opposite corner, just in case they get sneaky. You see anything moving around, you let me know immediately.”
Cass dipped her head in silent acknowledgment.
“We’ll give it fifteen and if all’s quiet, I’ll take you back to our hole-in-the-wall.”
The three broke up and took up positions around the roof. Cass set herself to keep careful watch, knowing all too well that out here in the open, fifteen minutes was plenty of time for everything to go wrong.
FOUR
Painter stood on a high, wide balcony of a building outside the city, six stories up, and watched as dawn broke open and spilled its first light over the high wall of Morningside. The once great city, glittering jewel of the east, was now, just as Asher had proclaimed, a horror to gaze upon. No, not as Asher had proclaimed. As he, Painter, had proclaimed on Asher’s behalf. Asher’s words, delivered by his mouth. This was his work, too. He could not separate himself from it, no matter how much his heart might repulse at the thought. This was his work. Painter forced his eyes to take it in, to see fully and truly the destruction that he had brought upon the city.
The scale of the devastation was beyond anything he had imagined possible. Painter recalled the night Asher had come to him in a dream, when he had touched Painter’s mouth and loosened his tongue.
Tell them I’m coming.
Even then, Painter had known Asher’s intent, his thirst for vengeance. It was a thirst Painter had shared, at least in part. But he simply could never have fathomed the full depths of Asher’s power, or his wrath. Painter had proclaimed Morningside’s coming doom with his own mouth. Only now did he see what those words had truly meant.
But he had made his choice. This was his work. In a way, Morningside had brought its ruin upon itself. The way its rulers had treated its people, had assigned value and meted out punishment or reward as they alone saw fit. Even Wren. Painter tried not to think too much about Wren. He had been a friend. But he’d been caught up in the games of power, he’d taken on authority he was too weak to wield, and through him others had worked their corruption. Painter would grieve him. Painter did grieve him. But some casualties were inevitable when justice was done, and he couldn’t completely absolve Wren of guilt. He had played his own part. He had made his own choices, just as Painter had. And as horrific as the outcome seemed now, Painter soothed his troubled spirit with the thought that this was the price of his own liberty, his ascension. And more than his own, for Asher had kept his promise.
“Snow,” he said, turning to his sister. She was behind him, sitting on the roof, head lowered and hands folded in her lap. She looked up at him, her Weir-blue eyes glowing faintly in the weak light of the new dawn. His sister, once dead, now returned to him. “Come stand with me,” he said. She stood and crossed to him, and he watched as she came over. She moved with a dancer’s ease and grace, beautiful to behold, and took her place next to him, gazing out over the city.
Painter just looked at her for a while, his heart stirred with overwhelming love. His little sister. Once lost, now found. His truest and impossible hope, realized. The grief he felt over the fall of Morningside was a faint shadow compared to the deep joy in his heart at his sister’s return.
“Snow,” he said, and she turned her head to look at him. She responded to her name, but he could see in her eyes there was no true recognition. Her gaze was dull, mechanical, and when he looked into those eyes, Painter both loved and hated her. No, not hated her. Hated her condition, trapped as she was between life and death, between self and slave. The Weir had done their work. Asher had found her in their midst and had... well, Painter wasn’t sure what he had done. Released her somehow. But he hadn’t Awakened her, not fully. Not the way Wren could. And so, Painter thought as he looked into his sister’s eyes, his impossible hope was perhaps not yet fulfilled. Not yet. But he would find a way.
Long ago, after their father had died and left them alone in the world, there had been many dark and fearful nights when Painter had sworn to Snow that she would never have to worry because he was there, would always be there, would always watch over her. It had cost him much to keep that promise. He looked back over what remained of Morningside. It had cost him and many others. But it seemed a small price to him now. They were together. For the moment, that was all that mattered. She was close, he could watch over her. And in time, he would find a way to bring her back to herself.
The morning light grew stronger as they stood there, not yet strong enough to interfere with Painter’s vision but enough to make him uneasy. There was an aversion to sunlight deep in his makeup now, beyond just the discomfort and difficulty it caused his Weir-modified eyes. Something the Weir had done to him that made it feel unnatural and disquieting. His Awakening had given him mastery over his instincts to flee the daylight, but the anxiety it produced had never fully subsided. He wondered what Snow was feeling – if she was in fact feeling anything, or if she was simply an automaton somehow attached to him now, like some lesser process of a higher control program. The Weir could be made to move in broad daylight, could be provoked to endure it. But they suffered under it, just as normal humans naturally feared the dark.
“Come on,” Painter said. “We’ll find a place for you to rest.” He leaned over and drew his sister’s head to his lips, kissed her forehead. She accepted it without hesitance or warmth. He led her back inside the abandoned building, and she followed obediently. More like a servant than a sister. Too much like. But that was temporary, Painter reminded himself. He’d find a way.
They descended through the darkened building, looking for an inner room without windows or holes where the light could seep in. There were many to choose from, and though Painter knew Snow would accept any one he selected, he kept searching for one that seemed safest and most comfortable. Like most of the buildings this close to Morningside, anything of value had long ago been stripped out, and much of the debris had been cleared away. Still, it was heavy with dust and the damp, stale smell of long disuse.
As he searched, he felt a vibration in his thoughts, a ripple of something Other, an external impulse; the first sign that Asher was reaching out to him. And even though Painter had accepted it, had invited it, it was nevertheless deeply unnerving each time. The door between his thoughts and Asher’s was weak and unlocked. Though Asher had, thus far, always done him the courtesy of requesting access, Painter couldn’t help but wonder what the outcome would be if he declined or, worse, resisted. And he wondered briefly if he was even capable of resisting. It was as if Asher stood at the door of his mind, having already turned the knob and opened it a crack before knocking. Painter was free to say come in, but there was little question what the result could be if he didn’t.
He opened the channel and Asher formed in his mind. More than mere thoughts, more than a voice. A presence. Asher couldn’t control Painter directly, but he left no doubt as to his will.
“I have need of you,” Asher said, from deep within the recesses of Painter’s own mind. Painter stopped his search for a room and waited. It was difficult to do much of anything else when Asher was communicating with him. “What are you doing?”
There was another strange aspect of this... whatever this was. Communion with Asher. He was somehow fully part of Painter’s mind, and yet completely separate and distinct. He couldn’t read Painter’s thoughts, couldn’t see through his eyes, or hear through his ears. To respond, Painter had to make a conscious effort to direct his thoughts towards Asher. Though he didn’t need to speak aloud, the mechanism felt almost exactly the same.
“I’m with my sister,” Painter responded.
“Yes, obviously,” Asher said. He might not be able to make use of Painter’s senses, but he always seemed to know exactly where he was. Painter wondered if Asher knew the exact location of every single Weir under his power. “But what are you doing?”
“Finding a place for her to rest.”
/> “She doesn’t need it,” Asher said dismissively. “I have a new place for you. I’ll send you the location.”
A moment later, Painter received a locational ping, a virtual marker set in the physical world. It was miles away.
“Get started. The rest will be along in a little while.”
“Shouldn’t I wait until the sun goes down?”
“Why?” Asher said. The impatience was apparent, and Painter decided not to press it.
“What should I do when I get there?”
“Just get moving. I’ll tell you what to do when it’s time.”
“OK.”
Painter waited to see if there was anything more, but Asher wasn’t talking. He wasn’t leaving either, though. Painter looked over at Snow, who was standing dutifully by, staring off at nothing in particular. It would be a strain on her to travel through the daylight. He knew she could endure it, but he didn’t like forcing it on her.
After thirty seconds or so, Asher still hadn’t disconnected.
“We’re going right now,” Painter said. “Come on, Snow.” She turned to him, and he took her hand in his. She would follow him without it of course, but it felt more natural that way. Like when they were kids.
“Painter,” Asher said, and the tone of his voice had changed. Or, rather, the tone of whatever it was Painter was experiencing inside his own head had changed. It was less agitated, less abrasive. Not quite consoling, but there was a note of reassurance in it. “You are my voice. My herald. You’re not like the others. I chose you... I ask more of you because I know you have more to give.”
“I understand,” Painter answered.
“Good,” Asher said, and in the next instant he was gone. That sensation was almost as disruptive as when Asher made his approach; there was, for a moment, what felt like a hole in Painter’s mind. His own thoughts rushed like water to fill the void, collided together, churned. It always left him a little disoriented, as if he had walked in a room with a floor tilted ever so slightly to one side. The feeling subsided in a minute or two.
Painter led Snow down several flights of stairs to the ground floor. They stopped at a side entrance near the front of the building, where sunlight was filtering in underneath the door. Snow squawked once, softly, her voice and words still attuned to the static language of the Weir. Painter had lost whatever part of him could interpret that densely packed burst of communication, but he was becoming more skilled at discerning the different timbre of that which had formerly been pure noise. It had shape now, somehow, in his mind. She was worried about the sunlight. Or, if not worried, at least drawing his attention to it.
“It’s OK,” he reassured his sister. “We need to go out there. We have a long walk to go on, and we have to leave now.” She stood placidly by, still holding his hand, but continuing to look down at the light seeping in under the door.
“Here,” Painter said, and he got his goggles out of his pocket and placed them over her eyes. She reached up and touched them, trying to back away at first, but he held her steady and gently adjusted the straps to secure them in place. Snow kept one hand on them even after he’d fitted them for her. They were too large for her face, and made her look like a little bug. Painter smiled at the image; with the dark lenses he couldn’t see her modified eyes. For a moment, he could almost believe she was wholly herself again. He let the thought linger as long as it would, enjoying the lie even as it fled before him. Finally, he took her hand and then pushed the door open.
She shied away from the burst of sunlight, dazzling in contrast to the dusky stairwell. It made Painter’s head hurt almost immediately, and he squinted against it, even though he knew it was yet weak compared to what was still to come. He stepped out into it, drawing Snow gently along behind him. Maybe they’d get lucky and some cloud cover would blow in. He glanced up at the sky; it was pale purple tinged with yellow, and as clear as it could be. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful, sunny day.
And it would be a long day, and the journey longer. But he could bear the intense headache the day would bring, knowing his sister wouldn’t have to. He sighed and started off towards the distant mark Asher had set for him, with Snow in her too-big goggles in tow.
FIVE
Wren sat on the couch and stared at his hands clasped in his lap. There was a small red spot beside his left thumbnail where he’d picked at a tag of skin and torn it free. It was a bad habit. Mama always told him not to do that. It hurt when he pressed on it, but he was pressing on it anyway.
They’d moved up from the bar to the apartment above, both for comfort and for privacy. Now they were seated in the front room, Haiku in one chair, jCharles in another, with Wren across from them on the worn leather couch. Wren couldn’t quite bring himself to raise his eyes to Haiku; the scene was too strange. It’d been well over a year since he’d sat in the same place, and jCharles had sat in the same spot he was in now, and Three had been there, where Haiku was now sitting. Seeing the reality somehow made the memory more real, more immediate; like maybe if Wren didn’t look up, that really would be Three sitting there.
“You don’t have to do this, Wren,” jCharles said.
Wren nodded, but didn’t look up. It was foolish, and he knew it was foolish, but almost believing Three was there was almost enough to give him courage. Three had called him a soldier once. So many memories of the man rushed and swirled through his mind. Some moments were indistinct, more impression than image. Others were so clear, remembering was nearly the same as experiencing. Except for Three’s face. Over time Three’s face had become indistinct in Wren’s mind, and noticing it now frightened him. Was he forgetting Three? How could he ever do so?
“I know much of his past already,” Haiku said, gently reassuring. “Most from having lived it alongside him. Some, I’ve discovered through searching. But not this chapter of his life. If you could help me record it, it would honor both the man and his House.”
Wren glanced up at Haiku, sitting across from him. The man was sitting quietly, his big book open on his lap, pen in hand. His expression was warm and kind, expectant without any trace of impatience or annoyance. Waiting. And looked like he would wait, without complaint, for however long it took. Wren couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen someone use an actual pen before.
Tell his story. To honor Three and his House. Wren could do that. A deep breath. Then he let his mind go back, back to a time he’d refused to allow himself to remember for a long time. And having given himself permission, the memory came back, acutely vivid. The bar, the people, the smell. Mama’s hand, hard and cold and trembling, squeezing his. The fear.
“He was just sitting there,” Wren said, at last. “When we first came in. In the front corner of the place, behind the door. Mama didn’t notice him, but I did. Because he was there, but it felt like he shouldn’t have been. That was when we met him. That was when I met Three.”
Now that the door of his mind was open, Wren couldn’t stop the flood of images. Three, sitting at that table, staring down at the drink on it, refusing to look up at Mama or down at him. Three, pulling him away from Mama while she lay dying, leaving her behind in order to save him. Three, lying in Mama’s arms as the last of his life seeped away.
“And that’s when he began to help you?” Haiku said, a gentle prompt.
Wren shook his head, more to clear it than in answer. “No. That was later.”
He continued for a few moments, telling as much of that first encounter as he could recall, surprising himself at just how very much that was. Things he hadn’t realized he’d noticed came to him, things that hadn’t seemed important at the time that gained new significance in looking back upon them. But as clearly and fully as those first images returned to him, something inside revolted against him and Wren suddenly found it difficult to proceed. The rush was too much, the memories overwhelming. Having fought to keep that part of his life distant and locked away, once freed they came like the ocean to a sinking ship, impossible to resist
.
His face flushed hot then suddenly cold, and his heart raced as hard as if he’d been running as fast as he could for a mile. jCharles sat forward, like he was going to stand up, but Haiku stayed him with a raised hand.
“So your mother took you out of the bar through a back door,” Haiku said a few moments later, picking up where Wren had left off, gently leading. “And then...”
He trailed off, leaving Wren to once more take up the story from there. The words called him back, fixed his mind on that moment. But Wren found his mouth had gone dry and sticky. The images still swirled.
“Through the back, and...” Haiku repeated.
“And then we went to a chemist,” Wren managed to answer. “Can I have some water?”
“Sure, buddy,” jCharles said, and as he was standing to get it, Wren heard the clicks and whirs of Mol’s approach. She passed by and waved jCharles off, moving towards the kitchen for the water herself. She returned moments later and sat down beside Wren, handing him a plastic cup with her left hand while draping her right arm over his shoulders. Wren sipped the cool water, let it sit in his mouth for a few seconds, feeling how it swished and swirled as he moved his tongue through it. He swallowed, took another sip, then a longer pull.
“And what happened at the chemist’s?” Haiku asked.
Wren stared down into his cup. “Bad things.”
Telling the story was much harder than he’d expected it to be. After that initial burst of information, Wren spoke little, answered directly, without elaboration. It was easier for him that way, to think of each event in isolation, to tell only what seemed necessary. Eventually he decided he’d been too eager. Told too much, too quickly. This way was better. One step. Don’t linger too long, don’t rush too far ahead.
But over time, Haiku’s careful, respectful tone and insightful questions began to work their cure. His voice was quiet and words kind, and gradually he drew forth the answers he sought. Wren’s responses lengthened. Without his notice, he began to share more details, to offer information more freely, to expound without prompting. And all the while, Haiku’s pen flowed across the pages, capturing every moment, freezing each in ink.