Mud, Page 2

  They cheer. The stone is dropped back to the ground and the boys kick it back and forth, weaving through the morning shoppers. While the rest of Epoh drag themselves awake and brace for another day of work and abuse, the boys play. Some of the shoppers frown, even snap at the boys as they rush through. Others crack a rare, weak smile. The boys tease, laugh, and run free through the streets.

  Free. In Epoh.

  The tension in my shoulders loosens as their laughter floats up. I drink it in while I can. It can’t last long. The woman will return and call him back any moment.

  The more they play the more they forget themselves. The boys get bolder, run faster, call louder, leave Epoh far behind. Their calls throw off the cement, brick, glass, and race toward the sun’s open arms. Escape into the sky.

  No one escapes.

  A knot tightens between my shoulders. They will pay for this if a Silencer catches on.

  One already has. Tall, with a furrowed brow and jutted jaw. His club is already clenched tight in his hand. Hungry for action. He wafts in the tail of their shouts, trailing behind. Waiting for his moment.

  They have done nothing wrong.

  It will not matter.

  But any moment the woman will step out from the carts, give a shout, and the boy will be back by her side. They will walk away together. The stone will lay still in the streets again, trampled by numb passersby. The play will dissolve.

  She should be back any moment.

  Where is she?

  The streets are swarmed, but I cannot see her in them.

  There it is—a glimpse of flashing red. Behind the crowd, in line at a shopkeeper’s cart. I strain to peer through the stream of passing workers, my forehead pressing into the glass. She waits, her arms juggling too many things. At the front of the line, a man waves wildly at the store clerk, his face flushed a deep red.

  Meanwhile, the boys are still playing. Every call, every laugh winds the tension in me tighter and tighter now, trapping me in a coil, squeezing too tight. The Silencer trails them, wafting in the wake of their cheers. Still the woman could appear and with one call shatter the moment into pieces, pieces too small for the Silencer to pick up. But she is still waiting in the line. The game continues, and the Silencer is closing in.

  A hard kick sends the stone flying. It spins overhead, floating, soaring, and bounces off the Silencer’s head.

  The moment seeps in, steals the grins from the boys’ faces, and sinks into the crowd around them. It spreads across the Silencer’s face and drips like poison from the thin smile crossing his lips. The Silencer picks up the stone. He rolls it over in his hand, holds it out to the nearest boy to come take.

  And suddenly the boy looks so, so small. Small except his eyes, which are huge, bulging with fear. A fear that traps him to the spot where he stands. The Silencer’s sharp jaw tightens and grinds behind his grin as he waits.

  The boy slowly steps toward the Silencer, his face tense and blank. Nearby shoppers step away, make room, as if the moment will combust. When the boy is near enough, he reaches out cautiously for the stone. He almost gets it.

  At the last moment, the Silencer’s smile disappears and he snatches the stone away and grabs the boy’s arm.

  Through a clenched jaw, he growls with anger: “I’ll teach you to get in the way of a Silencer of Epoh.”

  The crowd watches in fascinated horror. The Silencer lifts his club above his head and whips it down, striking the boy across the face. No one moves. No one speaks. No one stops it. It happens all the time like this.

  He lifts it again, his expression loaded with hate.

  Suddenly something jostles through the crowd from one side, and before the Silencer can strike again the fiery-haired boy has pushed in front of his friend, is taking his blow.

  A flood of words spill from him onto the Silencer. “Stop it! It’s not his fault, leave him alone—”

  The Silencer snarls, forgets the other child, and grabs the redhead by his shirt. He spits out words sharp as blades inches from the boy’s face.

  “Stop? Are you telling me what to do?” The Silencer shakes the boy. “How dare you use such a tone with a guard chosen by Zevach. Maybe you need a lesson more than your friend.”

  Then he strikes. Again. Again. Again. Each time staining the stick redder as the blood pools and drips from the child’s face. The boy cries out, but he doesn’t fight.

  The crowd jostles again and the woman is now at its center behind the Silencer. Too late. When she sees, she screams and runs to the boy, pulls him back from the Silencer’s wrath.

  “How dare you,” her words spit out in sharp tones of jagged glass. “He’s just a boy! Don’t you ever touch my brother again.”

  In the moment she has while the guard is stunned, she frantically checks the boy’s dripping face, brushes back the fire-red hair, runs her hands over his face and head. She crumples to her knees and wraps her arms around the boy, presses her face against his shoulder. And then she forgets herself in her relief, she must forget herself, or she would know better than to do what she does next.

  She says, “Thank the Gods.”

  It’s quiet. Most of the humans don’t hear it. Only a few of those closest look up. But as soon as the words escape her lips, as soon as the first accusing eyes flit to her, her cheeks burn red. The whispers travel like lightning and soon the whole square is buzzing, followed by deadly silence and stares. Her flush spreads, covering her face and down her back. Burning hot, angry, and defenseless.

  No one, no one, no one invokes the Gods. Not in Epoh. It is a death wish.

  I clutch the Texts in my fist tight and battered, afraid of what will happen next, unable to look away. The woman’s words still float heavy in the air. An awful blackness builds in my chest, coursing through me and into my head, my fingers, my toes, filling me, emptying me, consuming me. Helpless.

  The Silencer’s flat eyes ring with sadistic joy. The woman looks back to him. For a heartbeat, they turn the air between them to ice.

  Still clasping the child, she whips around and pulls him behind her into the crowd. I follow the trail of jostling bodies as long as I can, clinging to whatever I can of her. It could be the last time I see her.

  The Silencer doesn’t bother to follow. He stands watching as they run, a calm smile baring his teeth. He knows there’s no rush. Even if she escapes now, they will find her later. There’s only so much space to search inside Epoh’s walls. She will be a warning to the others to keep their minds on their own realm. Her best hope is that they will be carried away early on, and she will die quickly.

  They’ll take the boy too. Throw him in training to be a Silencer as they’ve done with so many others. He will forget his home, his family, whatever the woman has been teaching him about the Gods. He will come back blank-faced and cold.

  But for now the show is over, and the crowd begins to move again, tending to their business. The rest of the day passes quietly. I watch without seeing as the laborers leave, the elite make their leisurely strolls through the carts in bright fresh tunics and cloaks. The Silencers step down, becoming less harsh when the elite shop.

  Finally, the market dies down, the shopkeepers pack up their days work, the sun sets, and the Silencers forfeit the streets to the dark. Night settles in as it always does, over empty streets that have already forgotten what happened this afternoon. But my hands are still clenched in anxious fists, nails digging into my palms. Epoh hasn’t forgotten what happened. The Silencer hasn’t forgotten. Fear rattles in my chest when I think of what’s in store for the fiery-haired boy and his sister.

  Chapter 3

  AT THE OTHER end of the room, the cold stare of the Hunter's corpse watches me through the sheet. I want it out, buried deep, deep, deep, so deep even I could never find it again.

  Even so, I let another hour pass before daring to move. I wait for signs that Epoh's underworld is stirring, to be sure none who would care are here to see me haunting the temple's empty halls. The box is stil
l gripped tight in my hand, so hard its pointed corners pierce into my skin. So hard the tension pulls on my knuckles. So hard it should break.

  If only it would break.

  Once the shadows start lurking in through the alleys, I know I'm safe.

  Even through the blanket, those cold, knowing eyes send quivers down my back. I brace myself and step toward it, and quickly sling it over my shoulder, sheet, and all.

  It is surprisingly light for such a great burden.

  I open the door from my tower and make my way down the cold stone steps to the temple’s sanctuary. The air trapped in its dark pockets is thick with dust and memory. So many bodies I’ve already carried down these winding stairs.

  The sanctuary is an abrupt burst of light at the end of the stairs. Full moon tonight. It pushes through the temple’s stained-glass windows, spills fractures of blue, purple, red, and green. The pews awaken beneath its light and the pulpit is restored to its former glory. I quicken my stride as I walk across the back of the room to the wooden door at the other end.

  The door creaks as I push it open. The rich smell of sod beckons and repels me. I force through the door’s small frame and the dark swallows me back into its comfortable emptiness. The old stairs groan under my weight. I tread slowly so they don’t snap under the pressure. Onto the compact earth of the cellar’s floor, I step, past the rows of raised mounds in the ground, each marking a life gone. A life I took.

  It’s dark, but I feel each one below my feet. I remember. Down here they will always be freshly murdered, their blood still warm and sticky on my hands.

  This easy deposit is one of the reasons I’ve stayed here so long. The Hunters would have found me anywhere. They have not always been so easy to hide.

  I reach the row’s end and release the body to the ground. My fingers sink easily into the dirt. Cool and rich. I crumble handful after handful and push it away, lulled into an easy rhythm in this hidden safety.

  Before I drop the body in, I fumble through his cloak pockets. Even in the dark, I can feel the flat eyes on me, but if there is anything to find, I have to know. I stretch my fingers into each pocket. I find nothing but crumbled breaks of stale bread. It’s always this way. But it doesn’t stop the hope from burning in my chest as it dissolves.

  The body drops into the hole with a soft thud. I fold the dirt back over him, smooth it out.

  He didn’t deserve this. To be hidden away, forgotten.

  On top of the mound, I push in a small dot with my thumb to mark where he lies. The symbol of the temple’s Goddess Theia—a seed. It is the least I can do; leave him with some kind of blessing. Maybe it makes no difference, if the Three have really abandoned Terath. But maybe not.

  Going back, I move quicker. My eyes have adjusted to the dark and I don't have to rely on memory.

  Past the long line of the dead.

  Up the whining stairs.

  Through the door—and I freeze.

  Something is wrong. Through the half-opened door, a flickering light bounces off the atrium wall. Not the diluted colors of the temple's colored panes. Pure, clear, white. Flickering…like a candle.

  There’s humans in here.

  ****

  Humans, here in my temple. To be wandering the night in Epoh, they must be reckless. To be here, in this place of the Gods, they must be completely desperate.

  I don't dare move. The stairs are too loud for retreat—it's a miracle they did not already hear me. I cautiously pull the door back in best I can, and watch their flickering shadows on the wall, distorted and strange, through the crack.

  Their whispers magnify off the walls. A man and a woman. Her voice quivers, matches the faded sanctity of this place. His is gruff and hurried as he pushes himself in through the broken sanctuary window.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” he growls. “We should go.”

  "By the Gods, you will stay."

  "I can do this ritual just as well in my tent—"

  "No.” Her voice sparks like flint. “You will do it here. In Theia's house. Where the conduit to Them is strongest.”

  The voice is familiar. It hovers in my ear, waiting to be known.

  The man's shadow moves away from her another step. She closes the gap. When she speaks, again it is so soft it is almost nothing. “Please. In Theia's name, I beg you. My brother—”

  “Yes, you told me already. I know.” The man's shadow shifts and fidgets. He sighs. "We need to get started. I told you, we cannot be here long."

  Her shadow nods eagerly.

  They move to the front of the sanctuary, their shadows stretching across the back wall. He grows as the stairs to the pulpit creak under him. She kneels to the ground.

  They pause: a true silence.

  Then the man stretches out his arms, tilts back his head, and becomes a great stretching shadow-tree against the back wall.

  "Most holy Mother, Theia the Creator—" The prayer transform his voice, strengthens, deepens it. "Have mercy on your beloved child, who lives in your Order … ”

  A draft pushes past me, forces the door wide enough to walk through with a loud whine. Anxiety rises in goosebumps over my skin. They heard it, they had to have heard it, and now they will come to see what caused it. They will find me, and all will be lost.

  But the man's voice continues to echo through the building without pause: “…we beg you, protect this child from the forces working against your Order…"

  I exhale my panic and let it break away into the air.

  The woman speaks now, a rhythmic response in the prayer, her voice—that voice I somehow know—rustling down the aisle and tickling my ears, stirring up a restless ache inside me, an ache that unsettles and surprises me.

  The door is already open. They are at the other end of the large sanctuary. Her voice tugs at me, and curiosity wins out.

  I place my hand on the floor to lean out into the atrium. My arm quivers with caution. Their ritual could end any moment. If I'm going to do it, I need to do it fast.

  I push myself forward onto my arm.

  I catch just a glimpse before I pull back again. But a glimpse is all I need.

  A thick braid twists down the woman's back, a fire-red rope. It’s the woman from the market, the one who always comes with the boy. The one who whispered her own death sentence today. My stomach flutters with excitement, confusion, curiosity. Who is this woman, so willing to do these reckless things no one else in Epoh would dare?

  I pull back behind the door and lean against the wall. I hope they are done before sunrise so I am not stuck in the cellar with the dead all day. But for now I can only wait. I settle into my spot, close my eyes, and drift into the rhythm of their chanting prayer. It’s soothing, somehow. Not just the voices, but also the presence of someone familiar. If only she didn’t have to leave. But she does, for both of our sakes.

  No wonder she is desperate. Breaking into the temple in the dead of night is nothing to what she already did in the glaring midday. I wonder where the boy is now, how badly the Silencer hurt him. And what horror lies ahead for the woman when they find her. Because there’s nowhere they could hide that the Silencers won’t soon find

  Something twitches near my arm and pulls me out of my thoughts. As if the air itself pinched. It grows larger, tightening, pulling, and snapping into a tense current. I open my eyes and stand alert, looking for the cause around me in the cellar’s darkness.

  And then, a blinding light comes from the cellar and washes out everything else.

  Chapter 4

  I AM FROZEN, caught, blind in the glaring light. Adrenaline charges through me, pulsing in my wrists and pounding my ears.

  The light wanes to a low glow, beckoning across the dark cellar, and takes shape.

  A figure like a man, but larger. Too perfect, a chiseled marble statue under an airy white robe. Silvery blonde locks curl around a brooding forehead. Skin glows pale and soft as the moon. But a darkness hovers around him—two inky black wings burst from his back.r />
  His eyes glow hot as embers, burn through me with a steady gaze. My fingers wrap around my blade in its hilt, but he reaches out an arm toward me: All is well. My body’s chaos quiets.

  “I am Kythiel, angel of Theia.” His voice is pearly smooth.

  Theia. The Goddess they used to pray to here.

  I blink. An angel, one of the First Creatures. Right here in front of me. They were rare enough before the war, but since then they’ve been assumed dead, or at least that the gods locked them out of the realm.

  His eyes bore through me, hot with intensity.

  “They’re upstairs,” I say. It comes out weak. My face stings.

  The perfect face clouds into confusion. “What?”

  “Theia’s followers. They’re upstairs.” I whisper the words, afraid they will hear us.

  “Theia’s followers?” he scoffs. “I am here for myself. I am not Her mindless slave like some of the others. Those worshippers’ prayers merely opened the way for me. I came here for you, golem.”

  It’s too much, too fast. It doesn’t make sense, and my mind won’t wrap around it.

  “But—”

  “Stop it. Be still.”

  He circles me slowly, those burning eyes passing over my every inch.

  “And you needn’t whisper, by the way,” he chuckles. “I’ve taken care of it. Simple charm, really. For an angel, at least. But they will not hear us. Not from upstairs, not from anywhere. So stop. It’s irritating me.”

  Charms? Angels? It’s more than my mind can take in.

  “But why are you here?” The question escapes in spite of me.

  He purses his full lips into a line. “I have been watching you, golem. I require your help.”

  What could I possibly have to offer such a creature? And that word again. Golem. It unsettles old things I pushed aside long ago. Reminds me of everything I wish to forget.

  “Adem.” I say it as loud as I dare.

  “What?”