The Exalted

by Kaitlyn Sage Patterson

  I pulled my hand back and glared at him, jaw tensed against the tears that threatened to come. “You know you can’t do that, right? You don’t get to make decisions for me.”

  “I understand. I promise. I rode through the night to find you. To help you. Please let me.”

  He seemed so sincere, so repentant. And though I’d never admit it to a living soul, I knew that he’d been right to try to protect me. I wasn’t a warrior. I didn’t have any skills that would be useful in a real fight. And, to make matters worse, I had a target on my back. I couldn’t just push my way into this established rebellion and expect to be hailed as a savior. I needed an inroad if I wanted to be of use, and Quill had that on offer.

  “I think Curlin’s right,” I said. “I owe you an apology.”

  Curlin slapped Mal on the calf, grinning. “You hear that? She said I was right.”

  The tension in the clearing shattered like ice, and we all laughed.

  “But don’t think we’re not going to talk about your falling asleep on your watch,” Curlin scolded.

  I groaned, and Mal hopped down from the cart. “I’m starved. You two have anything to eat?”

  Curlin, still smiling, looped her arm through Mal’s and led him toward our camp, already conferring with him in low, mischievous tones.

  By way of apology, I took Quill’s hand and pulled him into a hug. He waited a long moment before wrapping his arms around me, but as his body relaxed into mine, I felt a tension inside me relax for the first time since our argument. I nestled my face into the curve of his neck and breathed in the warm, masculine scent of his skin; spices and soap and salt air. Asking for help would never be easy for me, but I was grateful that I had people in my life who were willing to push me in the right direction from time to time.

  * * *

  We stayed in the clearing by the waterfall for a few more hours so that the Whipplestons could sleep a bit and let their mounts rest. I went for another swim and tried to coax Curlin into the water, but she anchored herself firmly on the edge of the pond. When the sun was at its zenith, we packed our things, saddled our mounts and set off down the trail together.

  On his buckskin cob, Quill could travel a great deal faster than my lazy pony, Beetle, or the mules. He rode ahead to warn the rest of the resistance’s leadership that we were on our way while Mal, Curlin and I made our slow, plodding journey up the mountain. The sun was sinking below the trees and I was sticky with half-dried sweat when the trail came to an abrupt end. I twisted in my saddle to look at Mal.

  “You get us lost, Whippleston?”

  He grinned at me. “Not a chance. We’ll just have to hike the last little bit. Help me stow the cart?”

  Curlin and I swung down from our saddles, hitched our mounts to a couple of saplings and went to give Mal a hand. I’d just unloaded the last bag of grain from the cart when I heard a familiar voice.

  “Surprise!”

  I turned, bringing a hand up to shade my eyes from rays of the setting sun, and found the last person I expected to see, standing in front of me, grinning wildly.

  “Aphra?” I asked, shocked, forcing myself not to check the bag of pearls around my neck. Its weight was still there and heavy between my breasts, just as it had been when I fled her burning house.

  It would be impossible to mistake the woman for anyone else. She was an amalgam, feared and hated for their supposed power almost as much as the diminished were feared for their murderous fury. She stood straight and tall in the glaring sun, one half of her body deeply tanned, the other far more freckled than the last time I’d seen her. Her long hair was tied in a knot on top of her head, the coppery red and golden halves twining together like a crown of precious metal. Her face was thin, too thin, but both her green eye and the violet one sparkled, and she looked positively overjoyed to see me.

  Aphra, who’d saved my friend Myrna the night of her whipping.

  Aphra, who’d murdered her husband, Phineas, the cruel sociopath who was responsible for the death of my best friend.

  “Yes, darling! Of course,” she said. “Quill said you were on your way, and I couldn’t help but come to greet you myself. I see that you’ve brought one of the Shriven. The others will have words for you, I’m sure. Introduce us?”

  “Former Shriven,” I corrected. “Curlin, Aphra. Aphra, Curlin.”

  I looked from one woman to the other, from Curlin’s short stubble and the black tattoos coiling all over her sweaty, heat-reddened skin, to Aphra’s coolly composed, linen-clad form, thinking just how terrified most of the folks in Alskad would feel to be standing between one of the Shriven and an amalgam. The two women sized each other up, visibly flexing and bristling in the presence of another person whose power so clearly came close to equaling their own.

  Thankfully, Mal managed to break the tension. “If you don’t mind, Aphra, these creatures need a good rubdown and a place to stretch their legs. Think you can show Vi where the pasture is while Curlin and I haul these supplies up to camp?”

  I shot Mal a look, but he was already busy piling bags and bundles into Curlin’s waiting arms. I’d trusted Aphra with my life at one point, but that had been before she’d left my brother tied up in a barn next to her burning house. Before she’d slit her husband’s throat. Not that she’d been without reason—Phineas had been a monster—but even a defensible murder was still murder.

  As if she could read my mind, Aphra said, “Quill told me that you know what happened to Phineas. I’m not sorry I did it, but you should know that you’re safe with me. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

  I untied Beetle’s hitch from the tree and forced myself to smile at Aphra. “I know,” I lied. “I’m happy to see you looking so well. You’ll have to catch me up on everything that’s happened since that night.”

  “Let’s see to these animals first, and then I’ll catch you up.”

  Aphra took the mule that’d pulled Mal’s cart and slipped through a dense cluster of vines. I followed her with Curlin’s gray mule and Beetle. The path picked up again on the other side of the foliage and, just a short ways down the trail, the trees opened up, revealing a large, fenced clearing. Horses, mules and donkeys grazed alongside goats and chickens. A small, dilapidated chicken coop sat on one end of the pasture next to a shed and a wide shelter where the animals could weather a storm.

  As soon as we’d untacked the horse and mules and seen to their needs, Aphra told me to wait in the clearing, then disappeared into the woods. She reappeared a moment later with a green glass bottle. She leaned against the fence, pulled the cork out with her teeth and took a big swig before offering the bottle to me. The glass was cool with condensation as I took a tentative sip. It was makgee, the milky, semi-alcoholic rice wine that was so popular in the taverns of Ilor. I’d had my share of the stuff while recovering at the Whipplestons’, and still wasn’t sure what the Ilorians liked about it so much. But it was cold, and I was hot, so I took another sip as I waited for Aphra to speak, taking in the sounds and sights of the jungle around me.

  Birds sang to each other from the branches of the verdant trees overhead. Great cats yowled across valleys while cicadas droned. Bright orange-and-purple flowers bloomed from hanging vines and bushes along the edge of the creek, and the setting sun cast everything in a pink-gold light.

  “After the fire at Plumleen,” Aphra began, “I hid in the woods to avoid the Shriven. I didn’t—still don’t—know why they were there that night, but I’ve enough sense not to let a bunch of the Shriven find me without some kind of protection in place. So after they left, I went looking for Myrna. I figured that I could take shelter with the resistance and use Myrna and Hepsy as go-betweens for seeing my affairs settled. If everyone in Ilor thought I’d fled after a rebel attack on our estates, all the easier for me to disappear, see?”

  I nodded, and Aphra continued. “Myrna wasn’t hard to find, and when
we finally managed to convince Hepsy that the fire had been started by the Shriven and not the resistance, she reluctantly agreed not to go to the temple for help. They gathered up all the servants who’d had the good sense not to be snatched by the Shriven or run off into the jungle unprepared and unarmed. Meanwhile, I combed through what was left of the house and pulled out everything that might be of use or be sold.”

  “But surely, with access to all of your wealth, you had more than enough to get away from the Shriven. You could’ve gone to Samiria or Denor,” I said. “It’s one thing to lend financial support to a cause. It’s another thing entirely to risk your life.”

  “And there, my dear, is half the trouble. With Phineas dead, I no longer have the protection of his reputation. Further, my banks won’t just hand over the contents of my accounts to anyone. My insurers refuse to settle my accounts with Hepsy, even with my sealed letters asking that they do just that.”

  “Then why not just go into Williford, empty your bank account and claim your insurance money? Wouldn’t that solve most of your problems?”

  Aphra sighed and handed me the bottle of makgee. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “The towns are crawling with the Shriven. The banks, especially. Myrna and Hepsy say there’re at least two inside and another four outside every bank in Williford, Cape Hillate and Southill. There’s no good way to disguise what I am. I’d be seized in a moment, and no one would ask questions until I’d long since disappeared. My money, at least for now, is no more than an idea. It can’t help me escape, and it can’t be used to help fund the resistance any longer.”

  I wrestled with her words, trying to unknot all the strands Aphra had shoved at me as the sun set behind the trees. Her very existence taunted the temple. Amalgam children weren’t allowed to live—the fact that Aphra’s parents and then Phineas had managed to keep her safe for so long was a miracle. She had as much, if not more, of a reason to fight against the Suzerain’s violent hold on the empire as anyone.

  Sweat trickled between my breasts, and I was suddenly aware of the bag of pearls hanging there. I’d cultivated and coveted this little treasure for so long, thinking that it would, at some point, be my ticket to freedom. I knew that Bo wouldn’t hesitate—he’d hand over the stash, find a way to get Aphra to safety, then roll up his sleeves and do what he could to help the resistance.

  That kind of generosity wasn’t easy for me. I’d not been raised with the kind of abundance that Bo had been accustomed to, and while I wasn’t dense enough to think that our parents’ choices hadn’t been hard for him, too, there were just some things that were simpler for him than they were for me.

  I gritted my teeth, thinking of the little cottage by the sea that’d always been my quiet dream. I knew that I had money, in theory, and that Bo would find a way to give me whatever my heart desired. But the thought of parting with the only physical wealth that’d ever been mine was painful. But it was what Bo would do. What I should do.

  “I could get you the money,” I offered. “And the Whipplestons could put you on a ship. Let me help you.”

  Aphra reached out and squeezed my hand, giving me a small smile. “No. Thank you, but no. It’s too late for me. These last weeks, staying with these people, I’ve realized that I can’t run anymore. I can’t hide behind my wealth and privilege. I have to do something. So I’m here to stay. I’m here to fight.”

  “And Myrna and Hepsy?” I swallowed another mouthful of makgee and passed the bottle back to Aphra. Of everyone I’d ever met, those two were the most dissimilar. Back at Plumleen, I’d taken to Myrna as quickly as her sister had developed a distaste for me. They had, far and away, the most contentious relationship of any pair of twins I’d ever met. “I can’t imagine Hepsy coming around to taking part in a fight against authority. Especially not against the temple.”

  Aphra shot me a wry look. “You’re right. Hepsy’s not exactly come around to it, but the fire at Plumleen shook her, and she knows as well as anyone how badly some contract workers are treated by people like Phineas. She’s beginning to see that there needs to be some change.”

  “Do they accept you?” I asked suddenly. “The people here?”

  I looked up from the dusty toes of my boots and forced myself to meet Aphra’s gaze. Her mismatched eyebrows were so closely knit together that they’d nearly met in the middle of her tanned and freckled forehead. I forced myself to wait for her to say something. She’d killed Phineas—slit his throat, Bo’d said. But despite that fact, Aphra was someone I’d come to respect back at Plumleen; a woman who always stood up for her people.

  I hoped that the people here were able to see that part of her.

  After another long swig from the bottle, Aphra took a deep breath and said, “There was some—tension—at first. But I’ve made my worth clear to them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are a number of wildly exaggerated tales about the powers of the amalgam,” she explained. “I only know what’s true for myself and the one other amalgam I’ve met. From time to time, my dreams show me one possibility among many for how my future might play out. The dreams are more warnings than anything—they’re complex and convoluted, and it would take a lifetime of study to learn how to interpret them.”

  Aphra hesitated for a moment, then added, “And there’s something else. You may have noticed that I can be a bit more...persuasive than the average person. It’s not a coincidence. I’ve learned, as I’ve matured, that if I speak certain combinations of words, people will do almost anything I ask of them, and the ability is only growing stronger as time goes on.”

  I plucked the bottle from Aphra’s hand and took three long gulps. “That seems like a dangerous amount of power for one person.”

  Aphra’s red eyebrow climbed her forehead. “I’m aware. As are the others.” Her eyes flicked up to the sky overhead. “But it’s getting dark. We should get you back before Quill comes looking for you.”

  I pushed myself off the fence with a sigh and stretched. My shoulder was still sore, but most of my muscles screamed with every movement, so it was hard to tell if I’d done any extra damage to the tender joint. A thought niggled at me, and I paused as I shut the gate behind me.

  “Aphra, will you promise me something?”

  She turned, fixing her eyes on me. “Maybe?”

  “Promise me you won’t use your powers on me.” My voice hitched in my throat, squeaking on the word powers.

  “I promise I won’t ever do anything to hurt you.” With that, Aphra turned on her heel and strode up the path.

  “That’s not the same thing,” I muttered, but I followed her anyway, curious to see what the resistance really looked like and trying to ignore the fear curdling my gut.

  Part Two

  “My children, bow before no altar but truth, for those who worship wealth are always unsatisfied, those who sing of power are always alone, and those who seek escape are always trapped. Only truthseekers may truly be exalted.”

  —from the Book of Magritte, the Educator

  “We, the firebound, stand strong in the flames of desire. We are unmoved by denigration and adulation. We march forward through the flames, together. I am your guide and your witness. I am your power, the flames are your strength.”

  —from the Book of Gadrian, the Firebound

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bo

  “The queen’s birthday celebration promises to be a welcome respite from the endless insults and bureaucracy that have occupied my every moment since I came back to Alskad. I wish you were here to enjoy it with us.”

  —from Bo to Vi

  I felt like I’d closed my eyes for less than a minute when the servants stomped into my room to wake me for Runa’s birthday celebrations. I pulled a pillow over my head and willed myself back to sleep. I wasn’t fond of mornings to begin wi
th, but coming back to a life of being pried out of bed and fussed over by bowing, obsequious servants after so much time tending to myself drove me to fury.

  I missed the quiet prodding and familiar chiding of Gunnar, who’d been my personal servant since I was just a boy. When I’d returned to Alskad, however, Runa had demanded that I move from my father’s town house to the palace, where the guards could better protect me, and I’d elevated Gunnar to a position as head of my staff—half out of the sheer joy of seeing him, and half out of guilt for sneaking off to Ilor without a word.

  I’d regretted it every day since. He’d made sure of it.

  After so many years of service, Gunnar knew me almost as well as I knew myself. Unfortunately, his degree of familiarity with me and my habits meant he knew just how to subtly chivy me to the edge of fury. Every morning was the same. It began not with the scent of kaffe wafting out of a cup set gently on my bedside table, but with draperies whipped open to wake me with the glare of the morning sun, fire pokers and grates ceaselessly clanging and unbearably formal requests that I get up and dressed and on my way.

  This morning was no different. The servants—a mind-bogglingly unnecessary seven of them—banged and clattered and “please, Your Higness’ed” me out of bed. I scowled and swore silent revenge on Gunnar, and the moment I managed to get a word in, I sent them scurrying away to find jewels that I had no intention of actually wearing. As soon as the door closed behind them, I shrugged into the formal silks and furs they’d laid out for me. I was pulling on my boots when Swinton swept into the room, the picture of a good night’s rest, and dressed in the formal uniform of the royal guard.

  “Where’d your minions get off to, bully?” He went to the side table, made a face and poured kaffe into a cup, doctoring it with excessive amounts of cream and sugar. “I honestly haven’t got a clue how you folks stomach this stuff.”