by K. E. Blaski
“Well, I’ll take your silence as your consent.” He hurled cages two and three into the pit, and with a roar the flames engulfed them in orbs of bright orange and yellow.
“Hmmrgh,” the voice from the remaining cage said.
“I don’t know what you’re saying, but if it’s ‘thank you’—that’d be okay, because this . . .” He couldn’t finish out loud. His voice was too heavy to leave his mouth. The air too heavy to draw breath. It would all be right in the end. It had to be. The princess would live because of their sacrifice. If Damen could’ve lifted the weight pressing his tongue silent, he would’ve offered an apology, a prayer, something. But, no. It was better not to display any remorse. He had to face Noble Tortare every day. Argathe was right; he couldn’t be soft.
The last cage was heavy, but with some effort, he pushed it over the rocky edge of the firepit into the blaze. He was right to put the thing out of its misery. If only it didn’t squeal so loudly. If only he didn’t feel so empty.
“Look at these calculations,” Argathe said when he returned, drawing him back to their mission. “I need more Urion, at least three more milligrams. The energy must quadruple.”
Relieved to be refocused, he said, “Won’t more Urion make the process even more risky? Deadly?”
“She’ll die if we do and she’ll die if we don’t,” Argathe sang like a deranged child. “We need the power, boy—get me the Urion by tomorrow night latest, and don’t get it from the black market. It has to be pure, not cut with whatever they’re using on the streets these days. Noble’s own stores will do fine. Oh, and bring me a hare from the trap in the garden.”
He clenched his fingers. “Another experiment?”
“No, you fool.” She took a large knife from the sheath strapped to her side. “Dinner.”
DAMEN
CHAPTER THREE
URION
If soldiers searched and found a vial of Urion in Damen’s possession, he’d be fed to the hawks for sure. Luckily, three milligrams was easy to conceal under a fingernail, behind an earlobe, maybe between his toes—places on his body where the soldiers would never look. Inert until moistened, the chemical wouldn’t cause him any harm. However, inhaling the dust intentionally or inadvertently was asking for trouble. He brought a mask to wear, stuffed inside his robes, just in case. The problem? Getting past the soldiers guarding the door.
He needed a distraction. He needed Nyima. Her presence could disrupt a horde of soldiers in an instant. Damen pulled out a small vial of brown liquid from inside his robe: inhibitor, from Argathe. This morning she’d insisted he bring some with him to the castle. “To keep you safe from your own stupidity.”
The sludge tasted bitter but dissolved quickly, leaving a faint numbness on his tongue. His temperament grew calm. Emotion flattened, anger satiated, even joy receded until it winked out like a snuffed candle. He was ready to see her.
Two soldiers, different ones from last night, stood stationed across from Nyima’s door. She didn’t need to be guarded—there was nowhere to run, no escape, and no one would dare help her or they’d wind up like Landan. The soldiers were there more for appearances than anything else: a reminder, as if anyone needed one, of who was in charge. They nodded at him.
“I’m here to see the princess.”
“What for?” one of them asked, and Damen was ready. Four years of training with the Tovar priests had honed Damen’s skills. When it came to truth telling, Damen had learned that there was often more than one truth, and as long as he slowed down and concentrated, told the first truth, and the soldiers didn’t probe further, he could often get by without sharing the next truth, and the next. It was a precarious line, one which he tread daily, but the inhibitor helped calm his nerves. He’d been successful, so far.
“To talk.” His voice sounded forthright and relaxed in his ears. All was well. “We’re friends from childhood, you know. She likes the North Tower; I’d like to take her there.”
“Noble never worries about this guy. He’s the Tovar.” The other soldier picked at the emblem on Damen’s robe. “And he’s, you know . . .” The soldier winked.
“Fine.” The first soldier waved Damen on, thank Aprica, since Damen was reining back the next truths, already on his tongue and intimately more revealing. Truths like: I’m going to ask her to distract the soldiers guarding the Urion room so I can steal some. I’m going to save the princess’s soul.
He needed to get behind Nyima’s closed door soon. He knocked.
“Yes?” The thick wood muffled sound the sound of her voice.
“It’s Damen.”
“Help me open it,” she said.
The soldiers turned so they wouldn’t glimpse the princess as he pulled, she pushed, and the heavy door inched open until he could slip into her room.
In her nightrobe, her hair disheveled from sleep, even Aprica herself couldn’t compete with her radiance. “I’ve come to talk.” They pushed the door closed behind him. Her breakfast tray sat untouched on a side table. “You need to eat. You can’t be weak or sick for the transfer.”
“Madam Meilyn tried to persuade me to eat too.” She poked at her food as if it were alive. “The thought of food. Right now, I can’t eat.”
“Madam cares about you. She’s just looking out for you.” Damen had once overheard Madam talking to one of the cooking staff, saying that she thought of Nyima as the daughter she’d never had. They’d grown close over the past months—or as close as anyone could while wearing gloves and staying five feet apart.
Madam Meilyn was one of Noble’s most trusted servants, having proved her faithfulness many times over the years. The embodiment of self-control, she was a Shygen woman who, like generations of Shygen before her, scarred her own face to prove her loyalty. When Nyima had arrived, Madam had even painted her lips black, so Noble would know if she kissed his betrothed. In return, Noble allowed only her and Damen to visit Nyima without a soldier present.
Damen liked Madam; she spoke candidly. Often he wondered if Tovar blood ran in her veins, too.
He reached for Nyima’s hand to reassure her, and at the touch of her Rosen skin he felt—nothing. The spark from last night retreated to a distant memory, his desire squelched by a swallow of dark liquid. If Nyima noticed, she didn’t say anything.
“Argathe needs more Urion. She thinks the more power she can generate, the smoother the transition.” He raised her hand to his lips. Soft warmth, but no fire. Focusing was easy now. “I need your help, Nyima.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Their behavior amazed and ashamed him at the same time. From his vantage point at the opposite end of the hall, he could see everything. As Nyima rounded the corner near the Urion room, she swept her hood and face coverings away, and the two guards were instantly smitten. These soldiers weren’t exposed to her on a regular basis like the ones who protected her door, and they were entranced by the immediate draw of her skin. As bewildered as if hawk arrows had shot them, they stumbled toward Nyima. “Come here, girl, give us a kiss won’t you? A little kiss. We won’t hurt you.”
“I am Nyima Bagulin, betrothed to Noble Tortare. Stay back or face Noble’s wrath.”
The soldiers froze at the mention of their leader’s name. But Damen recognized a quiver in Nyima’s voice. He was playing with her safety like it was a game and putting her in harm’s way—again. For a moment, he considered calling the whole thing off. But what then? Argathe wouldn’t be able to perform the transfer. He’d just have to be fast.
As the two guards argued with each other, debating what to do next, Damen snuck into the Urion room. Several waist-high mounds of the blue chemical, enough to swap the souls of thousands of people—hundreds of thousands—glowed in the center of an otherwise empty room. He’d never seen so much; the most he’d ever seen was in the small vial Argathe kept.
When he moved closer, the chemical vibrated. Impossible. An inanimate object shouldn’t respond to movement. And where did the humming come from? A low buzzing filled his ears.
His chin trembled, his teeth chattering, though he wasn’t cold. He must be inhaling the dust.
He plunged his hand inside his pocket to grasp the mask, but the fingers from his other hand grazed a pile of the Urion. Without warning, his palm splayed flat, fingers flexed. He yanked back, but he couldn’t pull his hand away. A warm voice flooded his mind, urging him to relax as images reeled across his vision: bloody battles, old men being tortured, the horrific sounds of children screaming, mothers raped and murdered, the smell of bodies washing up on the shore by the thousands. All his senses were bombarded at once.
Damen’s body went rigid as his hand sank up to the wrist in soft Urion. Then his own voice played inside his head. “These people deserve to die. No, death is too good for them: unendurable pain is what they need. Only their pain can fuel my power.” And he did feel powerful, like he could do anything: move a mountain, command an army, slice a throat.
Then the bloody images were supplanted by personal ones. Invisible fingers probed his mind, turning the pages of his memories. His father, standing tall, his scabbard strapped to his side, preparing to leave his family for battle. The page turned, and his father kissed his mother good-bye, in the time before Argathe, before dark science. The page turned again, and Damen ran after him, begged him not to leave, and his father reached down, tousling his son’s hair. He wanted the memories to stop right there, where his father’s hand rested on Damen’s child-sized head.
But these memories were wrong. Blue light cloaked the imagery, and Damen’s own voice, cruel and unyielding, said, “I turned my father in because he was weak. A traitor deserves to die. A painful death. Die. Traitor.”
“No, no, no!” Damen argued back. But the pages continued to turn, forcing Damen to face what he’d tried to forget: his father hadn’t come back from battle a hero; he’d come back a deserter, and Damen was the one who’d told.
“You did the right thing,” the voice of Urion soothed. “He deserved it.”
Nyima screamed through the blue haze. This wasn’t a memory—it was a real scream that seared his heart and jarred him awake. Damen dug his fingers into the soft blue chalk, forcing the powder underneath his nails like garden dirt. The Urion shuddered and reluctantly released him. Damen stumbled backward, trying to catch his breath and shake off the evil seeping into his soul. Guilt pulled and tugged, dragging him back to the Urion. “Come to me. You have nothing to be sorry for. I will make you forever strong. Unlike your weak father. More powerful than you can imagine,” the Urion seduced.
Nyima screamed again. His body shaking, he willed himself to—Get up! The Urion sighed and the voice went silent.
Damen threw open the door in time to see one of the guards impale the other with a spear.
The attacking soldier had his back to the door, and the other soldier—the one with a spear handle sticking out of his chest—saw Damen leave the Urion room. Realization crossed the dying soldier’s face. Distracted by the princess, he’d allowed a thief free passage. Blood choked the soldier’s throat. It was too late to shout a warning.
As soon as Damen caught Nyima’s gaze, she tiptoed away, down the corridor, replacing her head coverings with a flutter of gauze and silk. Both guards crumpled to the floor. One was dead, and the other would be soon: put to death for murdering his comrade. Damen pulled the covers over his heart, left the soldiers, and went to follow Nyima.
At the North Tower, he met up with her. Their breaths were rapid and shallow from running. Or maybe from the exhilaration of sneaking through the castle. Or maybe from watching blood spill. Nyima’s cheeks flushed.
“You got what you need?” Her eyes widened, pupils dilated.
“More than enough.” She’d removed her overrobe, revealing the skin on her face, arms, and neck. He stroked her arm because he thought he could. But adrenaline broke through the block on his senses. No, it must be the aftereffect of Urion continuing to play with him. He pulled her to him roughly, his lips mere inches from her skin. A blue haze invaded his vision. He felt powerful, like he could do anything. Get away with anything.
She gasped. “Damen.”
So close, he could feel her breath hot on his cheek.
“He’ll kill you if you can’t stop.” But she didn’t move away, or push him away—as if daring him to kiss her.
Reason and fear broke through the haze. This was Nyima, for Aprica’s sake! The sister he’d never had. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t. If he succumbed, they’d be condemned on many levels. Her skin would change to normal—evidence Noble Tortare was not the one to have consummated the marriage. Noble would kill them both by slow torture. Yet to Damen, losing Nyima’s friendship would be the greater torture.
Resisting with difficulty, Damen twisted his head away. “No.” He convinced himself. “Tonight, here on the tower. Be ready. And hold the stone.”
He wanted to tell her what had happened in the Urion room: about the images, the sense of power, and about his father. He should tell her about his father. But again, reason and fear shut him down, and instead of sharing his past, he squeezed the heavy cloak of guilt around himself more tightly. He’d never tell her. He’d never tell anyone. And luckily, no one knew enough about his past to think to ask. When someone asked him about his father, he always answered truthfully: I am now the son of the Priests of Tovar.
As he left the tower, he stole a glance at his dear friend, the princess, the woman whose soul he’d save. The mauve skin on her arms was marked with shimmering blue Urion fingerprints.
DAMEN
CHAPTER FOUR
THE EXPERIMENT
Argathe scraped twelve milligrams of Urion from underneath Damen’s nails. A bounty. Far more than she’d expected, and Damen watched her dance around the room cackling.
“We’ll use it all, my fair boy. Rescue your friend’s soul and scribe my name in the annals of dark science forever. What time is it? My timing must be perfect. Spread out the star chart. Adjust my calculations. The catalyst. Something with meaning, symbolic.”
She stopped her celebration and bored her gaze through his. She unsheathed her knife. This time there was no hare for dinner.
“Argathe,” he warned as she stepped toward him, teeth glinting like the knife in her hand. “Argathe!”
Quick as a snake, she grabbed his wrist, flipping his hand to expose the palm. She sliced diagonally, opening a wide gash.
A rush of pain shot through his brain and exploded behind his eyes. “Agh!”
“Blood, dear boy. Your blood. The perfect catalyst to swap two lovely souls.” She pulled him by the wrist over to the iron pot resting on the sputtering fireplace embers. “A little more.” She sliced his hand from the other direction.
The X gaped, and his blood flowed in a steady stream. He squeezed his eyelids and grimaced. Nausea swam in his stomach, threatening to leap into his throat. “Woman, you’re bleeding me to death.”
She released her grip and tossed him a scarf.
He tied it securely around the stinging, aching wound and watched her scrape his blood from the knife onto the side of the pot.
“I wonder if she bleeds purple,” the old woman muttered. “Purple skin, purple blood.” She stirred the Urion into the pot now steaming with Damen’s blood. “And what will you do if it doesn’t work, dear boy? What will you do if you race to the tower and find your Rosen maiden a blubbering hulk of purple skin and spouting blood, knowing her soul’s destroyed? Hmm?” She stared into the pot and stirred. The steam changed from gray to brilliant blue.
“I’ll put her out of her misery,” Damen whispered. “I’ll give her a proper burial, befitting a princess. And then, Argathe”—he placed his hands, one wrapped in a scarf, firmly on her shoulders—“I will come for you.”
“Really?” she chuckled, stirring.
“Yes. Really.” He caressed her neck, and then tightened a fraction. “And you will stare out between the bars of your own cage for the rest of your days. Death is too good for you.” He seized her shoulders and sp
un her around to see her reaction.
She smiled. “Boy . . . Damen. Don’t you know anything? Death has already claimed me. It’s you he wants now.”
“You’re mad.” Damen stared at the woman who had given him life, who had sung lullabies and tended to his scraped knees. Dark science enveloped her mind now, inducing spouts of gibberish. She bowed over the pot, churning out pillars of blue smoke and a flurry of glowing ash. Her face sagged with age and effort. Gnarled hands gripped the spoon, her curled nails jabbed at her palms as she continued stirring. He almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
“Well don’t sit there like a lump. Take over. I have calculations to make.” She thrust the spoon into his hand. “Stir. Stir. And don’t stop stirring until I say.” She went back to her star chart and the chronometer. Using a long rule, she drew lines on the chart with a piece of charcoal, stopping occasionally to turn the chronometer, read the results, and mark again. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I have something for you. Stay put. I’ll get it.” The door banged closed behind her.
Damen stirred.
She reopened the door with her hip, carrying an enormous white hare with ears standing at attention. “Boy, meet your brother, Little Neo.” She dropped the hare to the floor. The animal bounded under the table, cowering.
“What’s with the hare?”
“A successful exchange, my dear. I strapped the hare to this very table. ‘Little Nyima’ I named her—appropriate, yes? And look, Little Neo stares out through Little Nyima’s eyes. You wonder how I know, don’t you? Go ahead and ask me, ask me how I know it worked.”
He humored her. “How do you know?”
She reached under the table and pulled the hare out by its ears. It meowed fervently and Argathe howled back at it. The hare hissed and swiped its paw, as if trying to claw her to pieces—like an aggravated polecat. Argathe released the animal and it crept back under the table, its ears flat, eyes wary.