Finally the sunrise broke. Light spilled mercifully over us. I stole a glance, as I always did, as I was never supposed to do until my head was clean shaven. It was too beautiful to resist, that moment when the sun escapes the dark earth.
The bowl was passed around and a solemn drone of prayer was raised from the lone priest standing ahead of us gathered supplicants. His arms were outstretched, looking as if he intended to embrace the very sun itself.
The bowl reached me. It was a simple thing, made of glazed clay, with not a symbol or marking upon it. I dipped my razor in, washed my hand, spread the warm water over my skull. In a few moments my head was once again cleanly shaven. It took practice to be so quick, and we had years. Our myrmidon was done long before most others.
Now we were free to look up. I closed my eyes and bore my face to the rising sun. In the morning its touch was soft, tender. A giver of life.
But I knew that within hours this gentle caress would become a brutal beating, a throttling of scorching heat.
Such was life upon the Ashen Plain.
Too cold at night, too hot in the day. Frigid winters and burning summers.
With all our heads shaven, and the tattoos emblazoning the Empress’ ownership blotted darkly on the back of our skulls, still slick with water, we rose from the soft, dusty ground and returned to the base of Ashrahaz. Our part in the ritual was done.
The nine of us clumped together, bare feet leaving slender marks upon the loose earth. I wiped the last of the dripping water away. I hated the sensation of droplets running down my neck, leaving their cold trail behind.
Whoever was behind me helped dry my head with a quick brush of their hand. I did not know who it was. It did not matter. We were all the same, all but interchangeable. Without looking I reached back and squeezed her hand in silent thanks.
Our walk back was always quiet. Not out of reverence, but out of habit. We used to stay silent out of pure weariness, all those years ago, and now the habit stuck.
How long had it been, now? Eight years, perhaps. Eight years since I first laid eyes upon the Hallowed Mount. Ten years since the Flesh Tithe.
They say that being taken for the Flesh Tithe marks a death and a rebirth. Your old life, the old you, passes away and you are reborn in the cradle of the Empress. Born to serve Her will, to protect Her. When I was twelve I thought I understood; when I was twelve I thought I would become another tax collector in some distant part of the far-flung Empire of Un. Or an advisor to a satrap governor. I never even knew that Her will could place me here.
Everyone knew of Ashrahaz; a mere three days’ ride southeast of Ov-Unvahath, the seat of the Empress. Yet few had been to Ashrahaz. Like a jagged spire it rose from the ashy earth, an incomprehensible monolith so very out of place with the surrounding flatlands. Around the peak were irregular stone battlements and hand-carved paths, and a network of tunnels laced the mountain’s innards. The only way in was through the sentried gates, through the tunnels, along the time-worn steps. Ashrahaz was a desert mirage, a dreamscape made real, and Ashrahaz was my home.
My first memories of the Hallowed Mount are foggy now. I was selected at the age of fourteen, as much for my height as for any other reason I’m sure. Even now I towered a good head taller than the other eight girls in my myrmidon. And at fourteen I began to grow in earnest.
How the priesthood knew I would reach this height is a mystery; I can’t think of any other reason they selected me. I wasn’t as cunning or subtle as the others. At times I felt rather out of place.
But what I lacked in stealth, the usual weapon of our trade, I had long ago resolved to make up for in will.
When the others ran, I ran further. When the others trained, I trained harder. It was all I could do to survive, all I could do to make myself indispensable. I had no other option but to be the best. Falling short was never an option. Falling short could lead to punishment, expulsion, death, or worse - entry into a harem.
There were many times, especially in those first few years, when I had wanted to quit. Yet every time I looked seriously at my predicament I always realized that there was really nothing beyond this place. Not for me, anyway. To my family, I no longer existed; my life had gone to the Flesh Tithe. Home no longer existed. My childhood no longer existed. There was only here, only now, only Ashrahaz and the Disciples of the Void. Only the Empress’ bidding and the commands of Gol-Gorom.
And as the weeks and months wore on my eyes were slowly opened. I learned to embrace the touch of the Void, the cleansing force of the Nothing. I finally saw through all the temporal things that clouded the vision of so many. I realized that anything that could rot, would rot; anything that could decay, would decay; anything that could be corrupted, would ultimately and inescapably be corrupted. Only by denying myself the decadence of the world beyond could I avoid the horrors of mortal atrophy.
Now I shave my head and wait for the coming of the sun.
Now I feel the sand and the pre-dawn mist and nothing else.
Now I am naught but a deadly vessel for the Empress’ will.
Now I am a Disciple of the Void.
I see the true purpose of my race; I know why the Maker placed us here, upon this blasted landscape, forming us from the mud and sending us up from darkness and onto the harsh surface of a degenerate world.
We were here to cleanse it.
Regardless of cost.
As a noble, I was chosen for the Flesh Tithe; freely I was given, and freely now I give. Just as the slaves are chosen for the Soul Tithe, their very being consumed for the greater good, so must I give my entire will.
We reached the base of the towering spire and entered its shaded alcoves. Already the heat quivered off the dusty ground, the sun but a finger above the horizon. I was grateful not to be stuck outside.
As we passed by the meal hall I noticed no one turned to go inside. Inwardly I stifled a groan, becoming aware that the nine of us were on a day of fasting.
These were my least favourite days.
I feel guilty for admitting my weakness; I envied those smaller than me, those who never seemed to complain during our weekly fasts. Abstaining from food never really got easier for me. It churned my stomach, made me sick. Made me feel frail and winded until the next day.
I held my breath as we passed by the meal hall. No need to smell what couldn’t be mine lest I be tempted further.
There were times, while out on the trail, when we hadn’t eaten for days at a time. Chewed nothing but dried leaves from our medicine pouches, drank nothing but tepid water. I despised those days but always survived them.
As we headed back to our barracks we passed a squadron of black-clad brethren. Out of respect they turned away from our half-nude bodies, but I wondered why they hadn’t been down to prayer. I idly suspected they must have just returned from abroad, my reasoning reinforced by their dusty legs and weary gaits.
The only time we ever missed morning ritual was when we were on the hunt.
We reached the bare hall wherein we slept. Trace light trickled in from narrow slits in the wall. I got to my bed, sat down, and slid my clothing out from underneath. The others did the same.
Our barracks had ten beds, just as every cohort and myrmidon. Nine for us, and one ‘for the Empress.’ This bed was always kept in perfect order.
I wrapped my feet in cloth and watched the other girls go about their usual routine. Avna’a, who slept across from me, always stretched her left shoulder by slowly bringing it up over her head, grimacing as she did. She was a particularly scrawny one, not a bit of weight unused.
We were all a bit thin, trimmed down to only that which was necessary. Just as our souls should be, our bodies were. While Avna’a, for example, was scrawny, others like Ahd-Dehvi were lithe, a panther in an unman’s body.
I wished we had a mirror. But mirrors were strictly forbidden, nigh unobtainable. I would have liked to see how I looked. I know it’s wrong, and I felt bad f
or it. But I was curious to get a whole picture.
There was one time, late at night, when we had stopped by a pool on our way. I was awake keeping watch. The moons were full and glowing their pallid light and I couldn’t help but peer into the glassy pond in the hopes of catching a glimpse of myself.
It took a while to work up the courage to break the rule. We were supposed to be devoid of mortal cares, absent from this transient life, but I couldn’t resist. It was a moment of weakness, but secretly, one I was glad I gave in to.
Looking into the pond I saw my mother staring back.
It made my heart leap, startling me with its undeniable clarity. It took a few moments more to work up the courage again.
I looked so much like my mother.
In my distant memories, all but forgotten in the daylight hours, my mother was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. Long, golden hair flowing, her right to keep as a free folk. Bright blue eyes that seemed to smile.
Did my sisters look like her? Did my brothers look like my father? How many siblings did I have now?
Those thoughts were dangerous, always dangerous. Which is why they were forbidden.
It took a lot of willpower to pull myself away from the glassy pool. When I finally broke the enchantment my heart pounded wildly, and I crazily thought I had been bewitched. I knew I hadn’t. It was just a way to deflect the blame and ease the guilt of breaking rules.
I think back on that night from time to time. I think how beautiful my mother was. She will always be that way in my memories. Only very occasionally did I dare delve into such memories. Just like the morning mist upon the Ashen Plain they were ethereal, impossible to fully grasp, and burned away under the day’s scrutiny.
“You ok, Daz?”
I looked up. Avna’a was watching me as she wrapped herself in the loose, gauzy garb we wore for exercise.
“Just thinking,” I replied and went back to wrapping my feet.
I couldn’t help but notice the others were all but completely dressed and ready to depart. I was still half naked.
“Don’t think too hard, elephant,” came a snide voice a few beds down. “You may never come back to us.”
It was Vash-turel. I ignored her. A few of the girls hissed, a few giggled.
I hated her. And she hated me.
We all got along for the most part. There were a few rifts between members of the myrmidon, but nothing that had ever resulted in disaster. Yet I had always had the sensation that Vash-turel and her two most loyal friends, Ayurda and Ta’ali, would absolutely take advantage of any mistake I made. There was plenty of proof.
But I would be ready. And I would beat her. She might have been sly, but I had the two strongest weapons a Disciple could have – my body and my will.
She could call me elephant all she wanted. Because an elephant could crush a weasel as easily as I could crush an ant.
Vash-turel even looked like a weasel to me. She had a distinct nose and narrow eyes and a fluid way of moving, always seeming to lean forward. She was narrow-hipped and thin with a wide, sharp-toothed mouth. Dark-skinned Ayurda and Ta’ali practically looked like twins; Ayurda being only slightly taller and with dark eyes. They were inseparable, and always followed Vash-turel like flies.
Once dressed we exited our barracks and into the network of time-worn, criss-crossing tunnels, all lit by an alchemical glow. We soon reached the cavernous great hall, the central artery of Ashrahaz which allowed Disciples to flow freely like the headwaters of some subterranean river.
Sometimes I liked to hazard a guess at how many lived here. I could never quite tell. There were so many masks, so many covered faces, and most came and went in an ever-changing cycle. Each myrmidon had a different name and a different job. I prided myself in knowing mine was among the elite, no mere spies or thuggish knives in the dark.
We were the mage harvesters – the huntresses. We were some of the most beloved of the Empress’ servants, and gifted with Void Stones, dark opaline jewels that consumed magick and protected us from sorcery. We were the ones who collected the Soul Tithe not from the imperial slave-stock, but from beyond the borders of Un. Silently we slipped through cities and climes, an irresistible force preparing the way for the Empress. Preparing the world for the coming of the Void.
And that is how I tried to console myself through the arduous days, the endless training, the hardships of each errand. Each degrading, menial task in the middle of the night, meant to break us down and build us back up; constantly I reminded myself of my purpose, my role in it all.
And all the while I tried not to think of my mother’s face, and how it looked like my own.
6
Herace
I passed through the thin veil of trees and into the glowing light.
A grand bonfire crackled farther off, illuminating the surrounding revellers. A few fallen logs of immense size had been rolled into place and planed to serve as long tables whereon pitchers and bowls were laid. Fauns danced and played games, and there were a few tall dau scattered amongst them. The atmosphere was festive; by a lamp a handful of musicians coaxed sound from simple instruments.
“Uh, hullo sire,” an uncertain voice came from beneath me.
Evidently I had disturbed an amorous couple who were leaning against one of the nearby trees. Two young fauns in peasant’s garb looked up, disturbed but not upset.
“Good evening. Just passing through, is all,” I said, realizing that this was no affair a noble should disturb.
It was a simple countryside gathering. I’m not sure what I expected to find there, but it was clear that I should have no part in it. I resolved to not linger and began to turn my horse when another voice called out.
“Welcome, sire!”
I couldn’t discern who had offered the greeting, so I raised a hand and smiled in acknowledgment.
Then another voice called out. And another, and another.
It seemed they were all welcoming me now, and the welcomes were becoming friendlier and friendlier.
A gaggle of folk came up and bowed to me. One took the reins of my horse.
An elderly faun looked up and beamed a crooked but good-natured smile.
“Thank you for gracing us, your lordship,” he said, bowing as deeply as an elder could. He bowed so low that I worried he may not be able to stand back up.
“Oh, I was just passing through. Saw the bonfire from the road, thought I’d investigate... I should probably be going,” I said.
A collective wheeze of teasing displeasure was raised and one of the musicians made a discordant shriek with his flute.
“Please, m’lord, you must stay!” said one.
This caused a tidal wave of pleading for me to remain from everyone. To them it seemed like a big game, trying to convince me.
Before I had even acquiesced they were leading me and my horse toward the gaily-lit clearing. And before I had even dismounted I was handed up a clay bowl filled with a thick, boozy liquid.
I sniffed it, making a show of my uncertainty. The gathering went silent as they watched me put the bowl to my lips.
I took a sip. Contemplated it.
It was a strong drink, viscous like warm honey and incredibly strong. Perhaps they expected me to cough, but they were to be disappointed; drinking was one of my favourite pastimes.
I tipped my head back and took a hearty swig. The revellers cheered.
A warm sensation bloomed inside of me, partially from the potent drink and partially from the enthusiastic reception.
It was about to be a night I wish I remembered.
I dismounted my horse and was immediately ushered to the head of the central ‘table.’ It wasn’t terribly comfortable, as there was no place to put one’s legs while seated. And the ‘benches’ were just smaller logs saddled up beside. But the alcohol was enough to make anything comfortable.
I noticed that not a single soul seemed disturbed by my stunted an
tlers. Were I in higher society, this would almost certainly be questioned. These folk didn’t seem to mind at all. Maybe they had no concept of Shame.
“And where is your lordship from?” asked an inquisitive dau seated nearby.
He was nursing a bowl of the potent alcohol, sipping it cautiously from time to time.
“My name is Herace the Redeemed. Prince of Plin Oèn.”
“To the Prince,” he said, and raised his bowl.
Those in earshot did the same. I followed suit.
“Have a cousin who lives near Plin Oèn,” someone chimed in. “Says it’s beautiful. Never been though, not myself.”
I found this curious as my estate was less than a day’s ride away. I had only just left there this morning. But I supposed there was no business for these folk there.
“And who might be your lord, then?” I asked.
A few chuckled quietly at my question.
“No lords, not for us. Just the High King – er, the High Queen-in-waiting,” one said.
A polite salute went up and down the table, wishing the queen good health.
“We live on the free lands, sire. The lands turned over to Good King Aral when he built the throne.”
I wasn’t aware of King Aral ever being given the epithet ‘Good’, and I was surprised to hear it from these free folk. About as surprised as I was to learn that these were free folk and not peasants.
King Aral was a great ruler, a willful king who forged a unified kingdom from a collection of petty princedoms, but I wouldn’t quite call him ‘good.’ Being good meant being benevolent, harmless. King Aral had been neither. He had been pragmatic and powerful.
“I was there, you know. There when the High King was slain,” I said.
A dread hush fell over the table. By then I had drawn a fair crowd. Some folk sat in the grass, so full were the surrounding benches. Even one of the musicians had abandoned his instrument to listen. Only a lonely, trilling flute remained, warbling through the midsummer air.
The bonfire crackled and its light wavered over the awaiting faces. I took another sip from my clay bowl, set it down gently before me.
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 4