The Gospels told us to focus on one thing only during Procession day: the mercy of the Khat, and how he’d saved the Jadan people from extinction. Though I was supposed to reflect on the fact that I wouldn’t have any Cold without his benevolence, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d done.
I hadn’t been able to help myself.
While bringing the Idea to life, I’d fallen into something of a trance, my fingers moving by themselves, my mind simply following them. The tinkering had started slowly, hesitantly, but as the night went on, starlight diving through the slats to encourage my work, things began to feel right. More right than anything else I’d created.
Which was clearly wrong.
I’d finished the Cold Wrap in the early hours of the morning, everything coming together better than I could ever have hoped. The design was simple enough: I’d fashioned two layers of waxy paper into a garment that wrapped around my chest. Thanks to Abb I knew how to stitch a wound properly, and so I was able to sew the layers airtight, leaving a bit of space in between the sheets. With a small metal grate, some springs, gears, and skill, I’d tinkered together a small chamber to crush the Wisps, which I put on the side of the Wrap.
The Idea was similar to Mama Jana’s Cold Bellows, where the Wisps could be crushed throughout the day, slowly spilling the Cold; but in this case, instead of the Cold going into the air, it would filter inside the Wrap itself, meaning I could wear it under my uniform and secretly keep myself cool throughout the day.
That was the theory, at least.
I still hadn’t been able to get myself to try it out, my hands trembling each time I touched the crushing lever, but I didn’t know how much longer I might be able to refrain.
Once I used the Wrap, there was no going back. This was a blatant disregard for a Divine decree. This was blasphemy and rebellion, all rolled into one garment. The Crier had forbidden Jadans from having Cold any more for a reason. He wanted us to feel the burn of His Brother Sun for eternity. Yet, there was still no sign of his discontent.
A sheen of sweat covered my forehead just from the thought. I wanted to wipe it away, but I didn’t dare move in the presence of so many taskmasters, Priests, and Nobles.
The Procession was the most popular event in Paphos, and there were eyes everywhere. Every initial Khatday of the month, the Street Jadans were reminded of what happened to those who broke one of the first three rules.
Caught out at night: chained in the Procession.
Found with stolen property: chained in the Procession.
Off the corner without a Noble token: chained in the Procession.
Arch Road was now filling with spectators, all waiting to watch the Vicaress do her work. Some Nobles even made a full day out of it, following the Procession throughout each Quarter, stretching out the entertainment.
Finely dressed Noblewomen stood in little groups, holding their colourful display of parasols and chatting about all the pain the dirty slaves deserved. They drank flavoured water and ate orangefruit, scattering the precious peels on the road. I could smell the baking citrus, and my mouth grew even more parched. High Noblemen in gleaming white sun-shirts proudly conversed about the brutal techniques they used to keep their personal Jadans in line. A few painters sat on stools, parchments stretched over easels, ready to be inked. Brushes and quills were poised in hands, eager to capture the twisted expressions of pain.
I knew from the Domestics that High Houses paid good Cold for those images to hang on their walls. The Closed Eye was everywhere. Most Nobles displayed the symbol on a necklace, but I also saw stout-brimmed hats with the Eye woven in. Ceramic versions swung on long golden chains. Boilweed sculptures of the Eye, painstakingly glued to precision. A few waterskins, with the Eye painted on their bellies, each drink a reminder of Jadan thirst. Small children holding small cotton pillows in the shape of the Closed Eye, hugging them close, stroking their soft fabric.
‘Micah.’
I gave a start. I hadn’t heard Jadanmaster Geb sneak up on my right.
‘Look up,’ he commanded gently.
As Geb usually did on Procession day, he was adorned entirely in red: crimson robes, a fiery headscarf, and ruby sandals. Those who didn’t know Geb might think the colour scheme was a cruel insult, but in fact, it was a testament to his kindness. After the Procession, Geb often helped the punished Jadans back to their corners, and since he was dressed all in red, nobody had to feel guilty for smearing his clothing with blood.
‘How is the state of your shoulder?’ Geb asked. His face was sombre. I think in a way he hated the Processions almost as much as we did; each one of his Jadans caught was a direct failure for him, meaning a deduction from his pay and seeing one of us hurt.
‘Very good, sir. Thank you for your mercy.’ I made sure to sound properly gratified. ‘And thanks to the Khat for his mercy.’
‘Well said.’ He gave me a satisfied nod, his garnet earrings rocking back and forth. ‘You give your people a good name, Spout.’
‘I try to, sir.’
He gave a sad gulp and then walked off to find a spot near the Temple. I checked my slave stance as the Nobles continued to spill onto the street. Finally, the bells rang out, the crowd quieting.
The Procession started.
I couldn’t see their faces, but I could hear the chains swinging between their legs as they were marched down the street. A part of me was always glad I couldn’t lift my head at this stage, as I was never eager to witness such a dreadful display.
A few taskmaster feet marched alongside the row of the damned, their dirty toes peeking from their sandals, plagued with fungus. Jadans only got one bucket of steaming water a month to bathe with, and it was a mystery to me how we managed to stay cleaner than the taskmasters did. ‘Hate poxes the skin faster than Sun,’ Abb had once said to me.
The chains rattled heavily, chiming with the sound of excitable Nobles ready to catch the demonstration. The Jadans were led to the front of the Temple, my brothers and sisters gathered up onto the lowest step. I could feel their fear coursing through the streets, making my heart clench.
We all knew what was coming next.
I heard the crackle of the blade before I saw the fire.
The Vicaress of Paphos.
‘Heads high!’ Jadanmaster Geb yelled down the street. In one motion, we all lifted our heads.
The holy figure slid down Arch Road, all poise and grace.
The Vicaress – like all the women in the Khat’s family – was beautiful. She had a light complexion, and eyes of a startling blue that was never found in Jadankind. She wore a dress fashioned from dark, fine silk, which clung tightly to her body’s every curve. Her long black hair was styled above her head, decorated with a gold pin adorned with a Closed Eye. In her hand, she held a fiery blade straight above her head, the metal collecting angry light from the Sun and casting it around the street. A ring of flames blazed along the circular hilt, dripping tongues of fire into the sky. Although they sometimes licked at her hands, she never flinched. Rumour had it a Vicaress held a truce with pain itself, agreeing to give it out with merciless expertise, and in return, she’d never feel any herself.
Flanking her sides were two young Noble girls from the Khat’s close family. They wore sun-dresses of the purest white and faces stretched with glee. Each girl carried a basket overflowing with Rose of Gilead petals, ready to be laid at the Vicaress’s feet. They laughed as they plucked handfuls of the red petals and scattered them about carelessly, littering the street with velvety colour.
Abb had told me there was a huge garden laid out behind the Pyramid which only grew the Roses of Gilead. He said he’d often look out from under the giant slabs of stone on his back and admire the flowers, flourishing under the constant trickle of Cold water.
The Vicaress twisted her blade, the shine from the flames smacking my face. I managed to keep calm, head forward, not twitching; although I thought I felt her eyes go to my forehead.
She passed bes
ide me as the song started.
Always the same song.
The words were a mystery to Jadans and Nobles alike, but the song haunted our dreams. They formed the song that Sun would sing if it ever succeeded in burning the world to sand. Yet it was a lovely melody. Intricate, with long dips and gentle shakes, flowing from the Vicaress’s lips as naturally as pain flowed off the end of a taskmaster’s whip.
Some of the Nobles along the street tried to join in, muttering along. But the melody was too complex for humming. A particularly jolly couple near me were swaying their fingers in the air, trying to predict where the notes might go, although it proved too difficult for them. They smiled brightly with each misplacement, popping Khatberries into their cheeks, red juice dripping down their chins.
Even from my corner, the fear coursing through the veins of the chained was palpable. I thought about my Cold Wrap, and how quickly I’d be added to the Procession if any taskmaster discovered me wearing it. I’d never felt the Vicaress’s blade, but each victim said the same thing: it was pain you could never prepare for, and once you felt the burning slice, you forever trembled every time you stepped off your corner.
From stories around the barracks, I knew Abb had been tortured in the Procession twice, both times before I was assigned to him, but he’d always refused to tell me anything more about it.
Down near the end of Arch Road a Noble voice yelled, ‘Burn them all!’ He was half-heartedly hushed by a few voices in the crowd, but the cry was mostly overlaid with titters and huffs of agreement.
The Sun shone directly overhead, pouring onto the fiery knife. The Vicaress continued to flow down the road, blade high and reverent.
Eventually she made her way to the front of the Arch Road Temple, the Noble girls emptying the rest of their baskets with a shake before skittering off to the side. At last the Vicaress stood still before the chained.
She lowered the tip of her scorched blade, drawing it back and forth between the prisoners’ faces. A few tensed up, but I think most were in shock. The taskmasters stood behind the small bodies, making the chained look ever feebler.
The Vicaress’s blade drifted to the leftmost Jadan, and we all cringed in the knowledge of what was to come. Only the sacred word would keep them alive, but the space where the declaration ended was also the place where the torture began.
The first Jadan was a little younger than me. His legs trembled, while the edges of his face seemed to melt from fear. His shirt showed signs of tearing where a taskmaster must have already taken out his own punishment.
The blade waited to cleanse him of sin.
‘Unworthy!’ the boy pressed out, his voice nearly breaking with effort. It was said that the louder you made your status known, the less time the fiery metal sizzled in your body.
Every Noble on the street cheered at the word, waving their Eyes. A child near me tossed his plush Eye into the air, catching it with a huge smile.
The Vicaress nodded to the boy’s taskmaster. Meaty paws held his shoulders as the Vicaress chose her point of entry.
The top portion of the blade slid into the boy’s side, right under his ribs, and the scream that followed curdled the air. I flinched, praying no one saw me move. The fiery metal was then removed with careful precision and the boy wobbled on his feet, screaming in pain, his eyes rushing back in their sockets.
The Vicaress then stepped in front of a girl of fifteen or sixteen, who fainted at the sight of the blade before her. The taskmaster behind her was ready, easily catching the slight body and keeping it upright. The Vicaress reached into her pocket and pulled out a cube of Glassland salt. She gently waved it in front of the girl’s nose until it released its smell. The girl jolted awake, her eyes popping wide in surprise and fear.
Then the tip of blade was rested over the girl’s heart, waiting to see if she would make the declaration.
‘Unworthy,’ the girl squeaked loudly.
The crowd erupted with glee as the metal was pressed into her shoulder, hissing with fury.
The girl’s scream was so huge that at first it came out silently, lips straining to expel the sound. Then it erupted in a wave that washed up and down Arch Road, leaving Noble applause in its wake.
The Vicaress went straight to her next prisoner, another girl, this one younger than the last. She barely looked old enough to be doing errands. The Jadan boy next to her tried lending a calming hand on the girl’s shoulder, but the Vicaress shook her head. She lifted the hand from the shoulder and sliced away his little finger with practised ease. The flesh tumbled to the ground, leaving the boy staring at his hand, his mouth gaping for a scream.
The Vicaress pressed a hand to the boy’s lips for silence.
A few Nobles whooped. My hands pulsed with anger, aching to wrap around their necks and strangle them to silence. Then I quickly remembered my place and unclenched my fists, tilting my head against the watchful sky.
The Vicaress turned her attention back to the young girl, who seized up, forgetting what she was supposed to do. She would know the word as well as her name – we all did – but fear often did strange things. I willed the word to her lips, my mind screaming it across the street.
The dagger was drawn over the girl’s heart, flames hungry.
Then came a moment which would change everything.
‘Worthy!’ a voice screamed from the rooftops. ‘Worthy! They’re all worthy, you filthy Sunwhore!’
A few bright parasols dropped in surprise. The nearest artist’s quill swung across his easel in shock, his painting ruined. All the taskmasters’ heads swivelled behind them, looking up to the Temple roof. Some gasped, but many remained still with shock, struggling to understand.
Up on the roof, a small figure shielded her face with a mask of boilweed. To everyone on the street, her identity was a mystery.
Everyone except me.
Her posture was astoundingly rigid, and even though her hair was now unbraided, it tumbled to just the right spot below her chin.
And she was holding a Shiver.
My Shiver. It had to be.
It gleamed bright and brown in her hands. She must have doubled back that night and kept it for herself.
In one movement, the Upright Girl raised the Shiver above her head, and with a strong swing of her arms, hurled it down like the World Crier Himself.
The Shiver struck the steps beside the chained Jadans and exploded in a crack of Cold, the air rushing down the entire street, sending the Rose of Gilead petals swirling. The crowd shook as their robes were blown back, the Cold air swarming every inch of their bodies. When the Cold washed over my face I couldn’t hold back the gasp. I’d never felt anything so devastatingly wonderful, and I knew I might never experience anything like it again.
‘Worthy!’ the Upright Girl’s voice boomed over the crowd before she turned to flee.
It was the first time I’d ever seen the Vicaress lose her composure, an unsettled look creeping into the corners of her eyes. A look like fear.
All the taskmasters moved after the girl immediately, scrambling to find a way onto the Temple roof; but even if they managed to get up there, they would have no luck catching her.
I knew how fast the girl could move.
The Vicaress pointed the blade at the empty roof, murder in her eyes, as the Rose of Gilead petals drifted back towards the street.
Chapter Seven
Tradition demanded that while waiting on the barracks wall we keep our eyes closed and mouths shut until we are given our evening rations. It wasn’t like Gramble could hear us from his guardhouse, especially if we kept our voices hushed, but most Jadans kept quiet out of respect and fear.
Tonight was different.
For the first time since I could remember, tradition was ignored by absolutely everyone. The main chamber of our barracks was thick with conversation. Whispers reached my ears from every direction.
‘I heard she’s the Sun’s daughter. And that her face is one giant flame, that’s why she
has to hide it.’
‘If her face was a flame, it would have burned the boilweed mask.’
‘The boilweed was from sky’s crib. It’s magic.’
‘She has to hide her face, because one look and your eyes melt to sand.’
‘You ever seen anything like this?’
‘Not since the Twin Frosts fell a few generations back.’
‘But never so blatant.’
‘Never.’
‘Rebellion?’
‘Hush! To what point? Can’t rebel against the Crier.’
‘I heard the Vicaress caught the girl and is roasting her on a spit on top of the Pyramid right now.’
‘She going to eat her?’
‘The Sun is. We’ll be picking up her bones in the morning. They’ll want us to mix them with the straw and clay.’
‘Well, we know what this means. Bigger quota. I’d bet a finger on it.’
‘Damn it, how can they possibly make the quotas bigger.’
‘She screwed us all. They’re going to want triple Shivers tomorrow to make up for it. We won’t get our breaks.’
A scoff. ‘Breaks!’
‘I heard she’s from Langria.’
‘Langria’s not real.’
‘Why’d she smash it in the Market Quarter?’
‘Didn’t like the prices.’
A playful slap. ‘Be serious.’
‘Spout was there. He might know.’
Eyes turning towards me.
‘Think of how long she could have lived on that Shiver for.’
‘We all could have.’
I looked across the barracks at the expanse of boilweed divisions, doubting many of us would sleep tonight. Nothing this dramatic had happened in Paphos since that young monk from the Southern Cry Temple ran through the streets naked, prophesying the end of the Great Drought. Of course, that monk had been a Noble, so his punishment was simply confinement in a dungeon until his sanity returned.
None of us could have ever had the bravery to do this. And if the Upright Girl got caught, being roasted on a spit would be getting off lightly.
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