The Reaping Season

by Sarah Stirling

  An eternal lifetime. It was strange to consider that these creatures had existed long before she had ever been born and would continue on long after she had died. As if attuned to her thoughts, it hummed in her palm, its internal light expanding and contracting like a heartbeat, and then when she blinked the world around her was different. The trees along the path were thinner, more spindly, not the ancient gnarled things that had been there only moments before. It was no longer night time but a transitional period that could either have been dawn or dusk, the clouds a rich shade of pink against a lavender sky. Riftspawn of all kinds drifted through the air, weaving leisurely around one another in a way that spoke of peace rather than danger.

  She heard voices and when she turned there were people everywhere – all wearing long kobi in shades of a deep royal blue lined with red. One woman suddenly glanced up and looked straight at her and Kilai gasped, stepping back. But then she and her companions passed on by as if she wasn’t even there, leaving her with the trembling release of a feeling somewhere between relief and disappointment.

  “What is this?” she murmured, spinning in a circle. Everything was coated in a hazy glow, as if not quite real. As if she could reach and out and shatter the illusion with her shaking hands. Cupped in her hand the riftspawn continued to thrum, washing her skin in an orange light.

  A noise startled her and her head shot to the sky at the sound of wingbeats. A sudden shadow falling over her cast her world into darkness and then Kilai could see the sunlit outline of what could only be a dragon in the sky, its huge wings snapping in the wind as it soared passed and then circled around, revealing a rider atop its back. She tried to watch its descent but the dream wobbled and warped, shapes melting into one another as she felt it slip from her grasp.

  When she blinked she was plunged into darkness once again, disturbed only by the cyan lanterns on their tall iron pillars. The riftspawn escaped the open cage of her fingers and drifted into the sky, leaving her disorientated and lost. It took her some time to stand there and collect her thoughts, the bright images of the scene still imprinted on her mind, before she remembered that she had come here for a reason and that she didn’t have time to linger. She tucked the memories into a pocket of her mind for later rumination. At least for now she had a sense of the direction she was going in, following where the Riftkeepers had been going in her vision.

  For they most definitely had been Riftkeepers; she was sure of that much. Their blue robes had once been a distinctive part of the Order, some time ago. Nowadays they weren’t quite so ceremonial, for many traditions had been stamped out by the Sonlin occupation. As far as they viewed it, ceremony was ultimately meaningless because it had no impact on the result. Kilai would argue they understood nothing of human emotions or the power of tradition but she knew such an argument would only be derided. Once upon a time she may have done so, too.

  Now she stalked the flooded streets, boots splashing in puddles that reflected a rippling starlit night. Following the same road, she eventually came to a set of stairs that had been painted to look like a seascape from a certain angle, in thick strokes of colours that were leached by the pale lamplight. The staircase wound around the corner, narrowing before it pushed her out onto a small terrace with a leafy balcony. Sparing a glance at the path from whence she had come, she could see the square roof of the plaza further back and in the distance the twinkling waves of the sea. Even this far inland the smell of salty, dank water permeated the air.

  On the other side of the terrace was a squat building hidden by a wall of thick ivy leaves, budding with small flowers. Threading through them were small dots of light – the tiniest of riftspawn that appeared to be attracted to their centre – and they created streaks of white through the air they moved so quickly. This had to be the place, she thought, peering down at her crumpled, sodden map. It was certainly hidden enough and had taken her a fair trek just to reach it. She could only hope there would be some kind of pay off at the end, although what she was hoping for specifically she couldn’t really say.

  Steeling her nerves, she rapped firmly on the door and waited. She didn’t know how long she stood there in the balmy night, swatting at flies buzzing around her face, but it felt like an eternity when so much hinged upon her finding some answers. She knocked again, louder this time. Kilai was so close to giving up she had already turned to walk away and try somewhere else when she heard scratchings behind her and then the sound of a door opening. Whirling, she saw a face shrouded in shadow, barely discernable with a hood obscuring their features.

  “Can I help you?” said a woman’s voice, scornful, as if she very much believed she couldn’t possibly help her.

  “I hope so. Tell me, are you one of the Riftkeepers?”

  The woman peered around the door, the dark pools of her eyes widening as part of her hood slipped. Looking around them, she grabbed Kilai’s wrist and yanked her inside, slamming the door shut behind them. Inside she found herself stumbling into a warmly lit hall, a pile of shoes by the door and coats hung upon the racks on the wall beside a small painting of a colourful landscape. The woman in her robes merely gestured for her to follow her through to some kind of dining area with a long wooden table, one leg propped upon a book, a scattering of newspapers, cups and saucers and a few empty bottles littering its surface. Shelves above the table were stacked with more books, messily piled atop one another as if they had all been pulled out and then hastily slung back there.

  The woman gestured for her to take a seat so Kilai sat, grateful to rest her aching legs. On the opposite side her robed companion pulled out a chair and slid in towards the table, crossing her hands in front of her. When she pulled back her hood she revealed the face of a middle-aged woman, her bronze skin lined but her eyes sharp. A few silver hairs shone in her dark hair, cut neatly to her shoulders.

  “Who are you?” she said, meeting her gaze head on.

  Slightly unsettled, Kilai straightened her posture and stared back, mimicking her hostile body language. “I have come from mainland Tsellyr. My friends and I travelled there from Nirket just to find the Order of the Riftkeepers, only to find they had disappeared. Now my friends have been captured by Sonlin forces. If you truly are one of them, then I need your help. I need to know what’s going on. Where are your members? What happened to them?”

  The woman held up a hand to stop her. “You still have not told me your name, Chana.”

  Kilai restrained herself from snorting at the belittlement. Instead she nodded politely. “My name is Kilai Shaikuro and I was once acting governor in the city of Nirket, on the island Sathkuro. Who do I find myself speaking to?”

  “Yes, yes,” the woman said, “I have heard of it. You may call me Jenya. But before I begin to answer your questions, I must know – how did you find us here?”

  “I have my contacts,” she said. “You’ll forgive me, Jenya-wei, if I do not reveal all of my hand here and now. I have travelled far and I grow weary of games.”

  “Oh, do you now? Well you might wish to bow out now, Chana. Games are what we all play, even if you do not realise it. But, no, I think I see in your eyes that you do.” Jenya nodded, drumming her nails upon the table. “Friends of yours have been captured, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “For what reasons? If it relates to what I think –”

  “They are like you. Or rather, what I suspect of you, if you really are one of them. I don’t understand everything about this world. Most of my life I have ignored it, believing it to be little but superstition. Now I see I have been naive. What I can see clearly, however, is that something is amiss. The Order of the Riftkeepers are supposed to have their headquarters here in Tsellyr and yet when I arrived there was not one to be seen. Instead my companions and I were greeted by soldiers. What exactly is going on here? Why have they taken my friends and what do they plan to do with them?”

  Jenya’s eyes were distant for a long beat of silence, focused on things only she could see. Distan
tly, Kilai thought she heard the whistle of a kettle as she waited, the knot of tension in her gut coiling tighter as the clock ticked on. She was tired, her lids heavy, but she had come here for answers and answers she would leave with.

  “You must have some inkling of what’s going on,” started Jenya, gaze swinging back to land on her. As she gestured the sleeve of her robe fell down her arm, revealing the same tattoo she had seen upon both Rook and Janus’ wrists. “They have burned books, changed the tone of this conversation for long enough of a time that it’s had an effect on collective memory, and now the latest idea is to get rid of the Order altogether. You cannot, if your aim is to be the strongest, have people with such abilities afforded them by riftspawn continue on.”

  “You think they have all been captured?”

  Jenya made a noise from the back of her throat. “Captured, perhaps. Perhaps more. I cannot say for certain. Where my partner and I were situated we were so far from civilisation we did not keep in contact with our community very often. But when we did, those I spoke to were… concerned about the changes happening within the city. They said these changes were reflected across the islands, that attitudes were changing for the worse and had been doing so for a long, long time. I initially dismissed it as paranoia but when I came here I experienced things as you did. They were all gone. I fear the answer you seek, Chana, for I cannot locate them now and that generally only means one thing.”

  Mouth dry, Kilai licked her lips and uttered, “What does it mean?” even though she suspected she knew the answer.

  “Jen-ka, Jen-ka, I brought the tea!” The door swung open with a bang and a young man stepped through carrying a tray. His eyes widened when he saw her sitting there and the tray in his hand wobbled. Some of the dark liquid splashed from the teapot as he wrangled the mutinous tray onto the table, straightening up with a sheepish grin and tucking his long limbs into his sides. “Ah, hello, a guest. I’ll get you a cup.”

  “Samker,” Jenya called after the boy. “Samker.” She sighed, rolling her eyes. “He never does listen.”

  Kilai didn’t know what to say, simply sat there as the boy came running back through with a mismatching cup, chipped on the handle, painted with small flowers and birds. His ruddy skin gleamed in the light, black hair a scruffy mop upon his head. When he thumped onto a seat next to Jenya and began to pour the tea, the fragrant scent of rose rising through the air, she could see a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and eyes a startling blue in contrast to oily black lashes.

  “My apprentice, Samker,” Jenya said with an air of weariness.

  “Your partner, Samker. Samker Sha, at your acquaintance.”

  “Kilai,” she said, thrown by his sudden appearance.

  “Do you like rose tea, Kilai?” he asked, already pouring her a cup.

  Jenya nudged him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “Mind your manners.”

  Samker rolled his eyes and pushed the cup across to her, steam rising from the dark red liquid. “Kilai-wei. Beg your pardon.”

  Seeing the weight of the conversation had slipped from her grasp, she took a sip and nearly scalded her tongue on the fragrant tea. With a nod, she gestured to the cup in thanks. It was hard to tell how much Jenya was willing to discuss in front of him, considering they were partners but not quite equals, it seemed. For all her tutting and scolding her fondness for him was obvious and she didn’t ask him to leave once the tea was poured, his blue eyes sliding to hers, alight with curiosity.

  “Why are you here, Kilai-wei? Is this about the man we brought with us?”

  “The man you brought with you?” she said, meeting Jenya’s calm gaze. “I’m sorry, but what do you mean?”

  Samker quietened, glancing between her and Jenya, but when she said nothing he said, “There was a man who came to us at our rift in the hills, where we’ve been stationed for the past two years. He attacked us to try and open the rift. He was really powerful but opening the rift cost him too much, I think, because he collapsed. Me and Jenya took him to Tsellyr to consult the Order but when we got there...”

  “Yes, I too came here seeking the Order.” She paused, considering. She never did find out what happened to that soldier after they had left the temple. “This man you were talking about, did he wear a uniform?”

  “Yeah,” said Samker, straightening up. “You know him?”

  Feeling the weight of both of their gazes upon her, she played her fingers across the porcelain cup, taking another sip of tea to stall while she thought. “I met him in Nirket. He was simply a soldier then, just one of many. I do not know how he came to possess the power of the storm but he was intent on opening the rift there too and he succeeded.”

  “Where were the rift wardens?”

  Kilai snorted. “There have not been any for some time on the island. Certainly not in my lifetime.”

  Jenya and Samker shared a look that she could only interpret to mean they had discussed the Order’s problem at some length. After a long bout of silent conversation between them, interrupted by Kilai slurping at her tea – it was much nicer than any of the other herbal teas she had attempted to help her sleep – they finally parted heads and Jenya spoke.

  “We took the man – this soldier you speak of – prisoner so that we could consult the Order on what to do. There is no protocol for this, you see. But when we got there, there was no one. Not a single one of the Riftkeepers were left. The man tried to escape and caught the attention of the men of General Nevi, who then took him into their custody. I do not know what happened to him but I believe the intentions were for execution.”

  Kilai’s stomach lurched. If the soldier was meant for execution, she could only imagine what was in store for her friends. Especially Viktor who had proved himself to be a powerful enemy of the state when he destroyed one of the military’s new warships. Jenya’s words stuck in her mind, lingering like the echo of the piano after the keys had been struck.

  “When you said there could be more to what happened to the Riftkeepers, did you mean…?”

  “I only speculate,” said Jenya, shaking her head. “The idea is ludicrous, and yet, the fact that I cannot feel them any longer worries me. We are connected by our bonds and our abilities. I should be able to feel them but I cannot.”

  Samker blinked. “But to think that they’ve been, you know… Is that why we’re hiding out here? How in the Locker could they just get away with something like that?” He slapped his palms on the table.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Samker. We’re staying here because we must not draw attention to ourselves until we know what is happening.”

  Kilai watched them argue, anxiety brimming over. It seemed no one knew what was going on, and even worse, neither of them seemed able to help. How was she supposed to save her friends if she was on her own, with no clue what was going on or what she could possibly do? Frustration sunk its claws into her and she ground her teeth together as she tried to think it out but exhaustion was tugging at her, thoughts running too sluggishly. Before she could stop herself a yawn escaped her and she clamped a hand over her mouth as if to hold it in.

  Jenya eyed her. “It gets late. It is time we all sleep on this and discuss further with fresher heads on the morrow.” She stood and gestured for Kilai to follow, ending the meeting with one simple move. “You may stay with us for the night. In the morning I wish to know who told you about our whereabouts. It discomfits me to know how easily we were found.”

  Kilai still had so much more she wanted to say but she could sense she would make no more progress for the night. “Indeed. I would appreciate your hospitality very much.”

  Jenya harrumphed, taking her through another door into a small kitchen, hearth burning warm as a young maid rolled dough and smeared flour upon her cheek. She followed the woman into a narrow corridor with a staircase that wound up to an upper landing with a series of rooms, small plant pots hanging from the bannister with flowers that were drooping slightly but vibrant enough to br
ighten the exposed brick and claustrophobia of such a tight space.

  At the last door on the landing Jenya paused and gestured to the door. “You can stay here. I will bring you linens.”

  Kilai thanked her and entered a small room with a narrow cot in the corner, illuminated by a thin strip of moonlight from the window. She fell onto the cot, exhausted, and gazed out at the night sky. Somehow there was always so much to do. She could only hope her friends were okay while she figured out how to help. If only she didn’t need sleep, she could do a lot more to help them. But alas, she was only human, and she caved to her body’s needs, vowing to do all she could in the morning.

  *

  For a long time he was conscious without being quite present, trapped between the state of asleep and awake like the twilight walkers of eternal dusk. When he finally came to it was in stages, the gradual drip, drip, drip of water until his consciousness pooled, blinking hazily into a fog of gloom. At first he could not even remember who he was or what he called himself; he could only feel the incessant hollowness in his chest, gasping for the dank air of his cell with sieves for lungs, hand slapping against the cold ground as he wrestled with normal bodily sensations that suddenly felt alien and wrong.

  He could feel everything. Every twitch of his aching muscles, every scuttle of the insects crawling from hole to hole in the ground, every footstep echoing above his head. Every soft flutter of air from the window was a gust against tender skin, as if he had fallen asleep on his brother’s hammock again and turned pink under a glaring sun. It hurt. It hurt so much he couldn’t think clearly, every thought diluted by the veil of pain. When he coughed he felt like he was hacking up his insides, and from the warm trickle of blood that smeared across the back of his hand when he pressed it to his lips, he probably was.