The Azureans

by R Gene Curtis

  Sattah is huge. Tall apartment-looking buildings stretch out along narrow streets, which are filled with people and guards.

  It looks like lunch just ended here, too, and the people are all returning to work. People, dressed as miners, collect like water drops into an open square, and then they scurry together to the gates and leave the city. Others who look like lumberjacks gather together in an abandoned alley and approach another gate where they’re given axes before heading toward the forests behind the castle. Others go to work in large fields that expand out for miles to the east of the city. Men and women sweep the streets. Others sell food. I don’t see anyone who is not working, and I don’t see any children.

  “Stay close,” Buen yells at me. I push my horse to catch up to him. This is not the same Buen I usually see. You’d think he’d be happy to be out of our castle prison for once.

  We move our horses around the edge of the city, avoiding the crowds as much as we can. After a half-mile we approach a barricaded section of the city. Fifty guards patrol the street, holding swords. One man bows as we approach.

  “What is it, my Lord?” the man asks.

  “One hundred men!” Buen shouts.

  The man barks an order and one hundred men march out of the barricaded section and form ranks around us. They’re dressed for battle, like they knew we were coming. Ten guards ride horses, and the other ninety are on foot. Each man has a sword and a large collection of knives.

  Buen barks out an order, and we move as a mass through the city. No one is particularly happy to see us, but they move out of our way quickly and we have a clear street to move through.

  We round a corner, and a teenage boy runs into view. He picks up a rock and throws it at Buen. The guards around me burst into life. In one coordinated motion, a soldier deflects the rock with his sword and three others throw knives at the boy. None of them miss.

  I know why Buen isn’t smiling. Whoever we are, we’re the enemy here. Since I arrived in Sattah, I’ve lived a life of luxury and exercise. But today, I’m out of the castle. Out of the castle, I’m despised and hated.

  And I don’t know why.

  The city stretches on for miles, but we keep riding. Sewers run through the streets; we ride over the bridges that cover them. We pass other patrols of soldiers that keep watch as people move through the city.

  I’ve never seen so many guards. This is a police state. The people look overworked, scared, and ragged.

  The one thing that is similar between the castle and the city is copper. Wynn must have an affinity for copper. It’s everywhere, on every building. Copper engravings of Wynn, copper statues of Wynn, copper emblems.

  In about the middle of the city, we stop at an apartment complex. The soldiers surround the building immediately. Everyone who was on the street runs away.

  My horse stops and paws at the ground nervously. I nudge it forward to stand next to Buen.

  “Stand back,” he yells. I back up five paces. Buen doesn’t look at me again.

  “Empty this house,” Buen commands. Soldiers enter, and within minutes people start to file out of the building. They come out quietly and stare at the ground. About 80 people come out before the guard signals that the house is clear. They’re men, women, and children of all ages. The children cry, but the men and women are silent.

  Buen dismounts and walks up to one of the men. He yells at him. The man doesn’t look up. Buen continues to yell. I can’t pick out his words, but I can understand his anger. He walks up and down the row of people, yelling at them. No one answers him. Suddenly, eight men break the line and rush toward him. With Buen’s armor and training, and the surrounding guards, it takes less than eight seconds for the men to die.

  Like a cougar stalking a cornered deer, Buen starts to pace again. People fall to their knees and cry. Most don’t speak. I wish I could make out more of Buen’s words. I hear the word “Wynn” several times.

  Finally, Buen turns his back on the people and mounts his horse. He raises his hand and then the soldiers move in with raised swords and kill them. All of them. The cries of the women and children echo through the streets. I lean over my horse and throw up.

  By the time I wipe the vomit from my face, every person is dead. A soldier pounds a large sign over the door of the house. I don’t read it. I look on numbly as the soldiers form ranks around us again. We march away, leaving the corpses behind us to rot in the streets.

  Buen rides with his face forward.

  “What was that?” I yell. My voice echoes through the silent street.

  The sound of marching footsteps is the only response. Buen doesn’t look at me.

  “Men in that house tried to organize against Wynn,” he finally answers. “It’s stupid to oppose Wynn. Anyone who does is killed.”

  I wipe a bit of vomit off my armor and throw it into the streets. I wish I could throw away the memory of the children’s screams just as easily.

  ✽✽✽

  I can’t bring myself to eat dinner, and so I wait for Buen in the basement library while he eats.

  The letters of the language are all familiar to me now, and I can read, albeit slow. As good of a physical trainer that Buen is, he’s impatient with my inability to pick up the language as quickly as he would like. It’s a strange language, and although the foreignness of it is starting to disappear, I’m far from fluent.

  I’m studying a book about mining for copper when Buen arrives. He wanders into the back and returns with a large chart. I put my book aside and Buen puts it on the table.

  “It’s time for you to learn about people,” he says.

  I read the top word and ask Buen if it means people.

  “A group of people.”

  Society. The chart is entitled Wynn’s Society.

  The chart is hierarchical, and Wynn is at the top. There is another word written next to him. I sound it out, and Buen tries to explain what it means, but eventually we give up and go to the next part of the chart.

  Beneath Wynn stand eight men, each wearing a different color of sash. I sound out the words next to the pictures. “Men of Wynn.”

  Buen nods.

  “Us?” The eight sashes are the same colors as the sashes that the men wore on my first night at the castle.

  “Yes. We serve Wynn and enforce his will in society.”

  “Why am I a man of Wynn? I’m a foreigner.”

  “Wynn chooses his men, and they’re his men as long as he wills it. Don’t ask questions about this. The only way to stop being a man of Wynn is to die.”

  That’s a gruesome thought. I shudder and turn back to the chart. The next level of the hierarchy has two groups of people. One group looks like the soldiers from this morning, and the other group is drawn in more formal garb. Buen calls each group by a name, and I decide that the two names probably mean “Soldiers” and “Rulers.”

  “We command the soldiers and rulers,” Buen says, “but only when Wynn tells us. If we tell them to pick up a spoon without his permission, we die.”

  “Why doesn’t Wynn tell them what to do himself?” I ask, although I have to repeat myself a couple times before Buen understands what I’m trying to say.

  “We do as Wynn commands. Don’t ask about this.” Buen’s voice is flat, and his voice is expressionless. He motions back to the chart.

  The next level on the chart must be peasants. “These people do all the work,” Buen confirms.

  The last group of people on the chart are the slaves, easily recognizable from their blue loincloths. I read the word next to them: “Za’an.”

  “Good reading. These people serve Wynn and the men of Wynn. They’re the lowest of the low.”

  Za’an told me her name was Za’an. It wasn’t her name at all, but a title. All this time I’ve been calling her a word that means property, a slave, a person without a name. The thought makes me feel sick, inhumane. She’s not my property—she’s a person.

  Not that I’ve talked to her much. I use my room to s
leep and shower, but I’m always uncomfortable around her. The whole situation of having a slave girl in my room is awkward.

  The door opens and a za’an approaches Buen. Like all other za’an outside my room, he’s a man. He speaks rapidly, and the only thing that I glean from the conversation is that we need to go somewhere. Buen puts the chart away and motions for me to follow.

  We better not be going back out into the city. I know why the people hate me now, and I think I might hate me, too. I follow the za’an and Buen out of the basement library back to the main hall of the tower. A peasant waits for us there. I guess he must be a blacksmith, given his soot-stained clothing. He has broad shoulders and a flattened face that can only do one expression—a scowl. He bows low when he sees us, and Buen lets him kneel for a moment before letting him stand.

  “I have it for you,” the peasant says in a gruff voice. He looks at us with disdain in his eyes. Buen grunts, and the man looks at the floor.

  “Watch not only what you say, but how you say it,” Buen says roughly. The Buen I saw in the city today is back.

  “Yes, my lord,” the man says to the floor.

  Buen takes a sealed envelope from the man and walks over to a small stool that stands next to a table at the far edge of the room. He pulls a copper ring from the envelope. He runs the ring through his fingers.

  “This is not the same ring Wynn gave you,” he says.

  The peasant’s scowl deepens, but his face pales. “It’s the ring the Master gave me. I give my word.”

  Buen stares the man down for a minute before he’s satisfied. He motions for me to sit on the ground. A few za’an come over and start a fire in a stove next to me. It isn’t cold in here; I sit, but shift uncomfortably in the heat.

  “Now, there isn’t nothing to worry yourself about,” the peasant says with a grin, the light of the fire reflecting off a gold tooth. He puts a needle in the fire.

  Before I realize what is happening, four za’an pull me down and pin my arms and legs against the floor. A fifth man forces my head to the side and holds it in place between his knees.

  “Do not move,” Buen says. Unfortunately for me, it turns out I don’t have a choice. Buen’s training isn’t working after all, I’m not strong enough to move with these guys on me.

  I scream when the hot needle goes through my ear.

  The blacksmith laughs. He slides the copper ring through the hole and then clips it securely in place. A little bit of heat later, and I’m sure that it is never coming out of my ear.

  The za’an finally release me. I look accusingly at Buen as I brush myself off. He looks away, and for the first time, I notice that he wears a similar copper earring.

  Before I leave, Buen puts the other copper ring on my left ring finger.

  “You must always wear this,” he tells me. “But you can go to bed now.”

  My ear hurts like crazy. The ring is uncomfortable on my finger; I twirl it the entire time I’m in the shower. I’m anxious to retire and sleep away the pain.

  But, before that happens, I need to talk to my za’an.

  She waits at the edge of my bed, like she does every night.

  “You didn’t tell me your name,” I say.

  “Za’an,” she says, and she bows her head submissively. She tries to move to the side, to let me get into bed like I do every night.

  Frustrated, I reach out and grab her arm to stop her. “No, za’an is not a name. I learned this today. I’m a man of Wynn, and you’re a za’an. Neither of those are names. My name is Karu.”

  She says nothing. I know she can understand me. My accent might be thick, but I’m comprehensible. Other za’an understand me—it’s not just Buen.

  “What is your name?” I’m tired and anxious for her to apply the ointment to soothe my sore muscles and headache, but I won’t let this girl touch me if I don’t know her name.

  She won’t meet my gaze. That’s when I realize I’m still holding her arm. I let go sheepishly.

  “I’m sorry I grabbed you. That wasn’t right.”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m your za’an. You can do whatever you want with me.”

  I may be many things. Impatient, rude, distracted, obsessed with accomplishment. But I’m not a man who does whatever he wants with a person because of her social status. I also am not someone who lives with someone who doesn’t have a name.

  “OK, then. I want to treat you as a person,” I say. “I want to call you by your name.”

  “This you cannot have.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s against the law for za’an to have names. When I became za’an, I lost my name.”

  She won’t look at me! I reach out and gently put a hand on her face so I can move it to face me. Her tears wet my fingers.

  “You once had a name?” I hate that she’s crying. Am I really such a monster?

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been za’an for a long time?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Tell me the name you once had.”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “It’s against the law.”

  “No one will ever know you told me.”

  She points to the earring in my ear and the ring around my finger. “If I tell you, even here, Wynn will know.” She points to the earring and the ring again. Then she motions to the copper etched ceiling. “Wynn hears everything we say.”

  “How is that possible?” Is this superstition? There’s no way they have bugging technology in a world without toilet paper.

  She points to the ceiling, and then to my earring and ring. She believes that Wynn is listening to us right now, and the earring and ring I’ve been given are bugs. I shiver. Likely or not, this isn’t something I want to be wrong about.

  Exhausted, my determination runs out before hers. I fall back on the bed. This isn’t the end, though—we’ll talk about this later. I stare at the ceiling and my eyes get heavy. The copper etching stares back at me.

  The girl limps a few steps to the head of the bed to pick up the ointment.

  My eyes snap open again. “What happened to your leg?” I sit up and stare at her. She didn’t have a limp this morning.

  She set the ointment on the bed and then lifts her foot for me to see. A bloody copper spike, about three inches long, has been thrust through her ankle. The spike is tapered so that it’s smallest in the place where it penetrates the flesh, and then grows thicker as it goes out from the ankle. The wound is swollen and puffy. For the most part, it has stopped bleeding. I kneel in shock and reach out gently. I take her foot and cup it in my shaking hands.

  “They did this to you?”

  She nods.

  “Why?”

  She shakes her head and motions for me to lie back down. She moves her foot and bare legs away, down the side of the bed, to hide the wound. She pushes me back into a prone position.

  A tear drips on my bare arm as she starts working.

  After she finishes the ointment on my arm, she grabs my hair roughly and turns my face so that my earring is pressed against the pillow. She takes my hand with the ring and shoves it down by my side.

  I’m so surprised by the sudden movement, that I don’t resist. Her lips come up to my ear and her warm breath sends shivers down my spine.

  “Wynn hears everything.” There is venom in her voice, a venom I’ve never seen in her submissive glances and bows.

  “If you ever speak it out loud, I will be killed. But you can know if you must. My name is Somrusee.”

  8 Ice

  Lydia

  “Lydia!” Mom calls down the hall. “Lydia, get up!”

  I moan and roll over. There’s no way I’m getting up this early. I’m tired. Really tired. Didn’t Mom need extra sleep when she played soccer?

  “Lydia, please!”

  Mom is sobbing now. She’s shaking me.

  I force my eyes open and make out Mom’s face in the dim light. Not Mom’s. Mara’s. I
’m in the house I share with Mara. She’s unwrapped my fuma skin and is hovering over me.

  The air is cold. I’m terribly drowsy. I muster all my strength and stand. Once I’ve lost contact with the fuma skin, the cold air hugging my body gets a lot colder.

  “Hurry!” Mara says. Her words sink in slowly, and I think that something is wrong.

  I shiver again. It’s really cold. I put on my clothes and look for my shoes.

  “Come! You don’t need shoes right now.”

  My head is almost clear. Clear enough to follow Mara into the other room where a small bundle lies on the floor.

  Jarra. He’s coughing. Something must be wrong with Jarra.

  Mara looks up, but I can’t see her face in the shadows. “You shouldn’t sleep in that thing. It steals your soul. I didn’t think you would wake up.”

  My body feels incredibly sluggish, which isn’t something I’ve experienced before with fuma skins. Maybe it has something to do with being woken up mid-sleep.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “One hundred and thirty-two days.”

  132 ... days?

  People told me everyone sleeps all winter, and I know about fuma skin and light. But, when I curled up in the skin, I didn’t think I would really sleep all winter. That night, last night it seems, I followed my quotidian routine, lay down, and rolled up in the fuma skin as if it were any other night. And now it has been four months! Four months of my life are gone, and it feels like I’ve only been asleep for hours.

  I shake my head.

  “It’s true,” Mara says. “You and everyone else has been asleep for months. The guard to the city says we’re more than halfway through the winter.”

  “No one is awake but you and the guard?”

  “And a rotating guard. And Jarra. Four of us.”

  “Five now.” I’m not going back into a fuma skin. One hundred and thirty-two days! That is amazing, or terrifying. Or something.

  “Jarra is dying,” Mara says softly as the little boy coughs again.