“You can keep your candles,” he said as he transferred his weight. He raised his right leg, shaking out the cramp, massaging the muscles as he swatted at moths. His fingers swept something acrid into his nose. What’s this? The odor was rich and loamy. The scent stung his eyes. A trail of smoke crept up from the darkness below, weaving its way toward the night sky as slowly and carefully as a thief stalking the darkness.
Pipe smoke. And the smell was familiar. Oren Thrako often walked the Priory, pipe in hand, smoke trailing behind him. Ren followed the line of smoke down to the midpoint of the shaft. There you are. A faint glow emanated from an opening in the wall. The light brightened, grew warm and orange. He saw a pipe winking red in the darkness, a yellow sleeve and five stubby fingers.
“Alive?” the question reverberated in the darkness. The smoke swirled, its white tail curling through the air, the familiar scent filling Ren’s throat. The Prior Master stood at the opening, provoking Ren. Alive? He asked. Still fighting? Why resist? Why not jump?
It would be easy to jump. One step, then another—then the end. No more pain, no more flies, no more rats. No more tap-tapping of sandals on the stones. No more rotting remains. No.
He waited as the smoke drifted through the air, rats scurrying at the edges of his vision, head spinning, and almost without trying, without thinking, he began to hum a few bars. It was the “Eld Song,” a Harkan song he remembered from childhood, one of his few memories of home. He sang quietly, then more loudly, his voice cracking at the lilting melody, the dramatic highs and lows. The song distracted him from the moths, from the rats that scurried in the shadows. He sang his tune as Oren’s pipe smoke rose through the shaft.
His voice cracked again, his throat was too dry to sing, and he did not know all of the words, but he continued singing anyway. He was a miserable vocalist. The priors had told him as much. No matter how much he tried, he could never carry a tune. He just couldn’t find the notes. But in the shaft, lips dry and throat aching, the song came out beautifully. The song made his throat burn, but he kept up the tune. He sang it without ever pausing or straying from the melody.
In the gap between notes, Oren coughed, clearing his throat.
Ren guessed Oren had come to hear him sob, not sing. Do you want me to beg, to cry for mercy or my morning meal? He had considered begging, crying like a child on his first night in the Priory. But no amount of pleading would better his situation—ten years in the Priory had taught him as much. If he wept, the boys would only mock him. So he sang as best he could and for as long he could manage.
The glow from Oren’s pipe faded; the smoke drifted toward the stars.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Ren said, but Oren was already gone.
The black sky faded to purple.
The great clock wound its way through the sky. Each day the sun felt brighter, its heat more intense. His skin blistered and peeled off of his shoulders and neck. The days passed and Ren’s body withered. He wished the sun would make up its mind. Damn me or set me free, he thought. Have your justice and be done with me.
Sandals tapped on the stones again.
“Alive?” the prior called.
Ren refused to acknowledge the question.
“Alive?”
Ren leaned against the hot stone, his head hanging down as if he were unconscious. The prior’s shadow crossed the shaft. “Alive?” he called again, louder. Ren heard mockery in the prior’s voice. What are you waiting for, Hark-Wadi? Jump, boy. Jump so you can be free of the shaft. Jump so we can tell your family you were a suicide. Do it now and we can be done with you, and you with our questions.
Ren shook off the imagined voice. He heard the prior ask the question once more, heard sandals drumming on the smooth stones, but he didn’t move. He refused to acknowledge the prior’s question.
“Is the boy alive?” A rock fell and struck his head. Curses echoed from above. More tapping. More talking. Ren did not move, he couldn’t move. He hadn’t slept in days, his thoughts were chaotic, his limbs ached, his skin burned. He was out of breath, out of everything—he had only his defiance: a primal urge to resist the priors. He held on to that urge, his head hanging low, unwilling to acknowledge their questions. If I must die, let it happen now, while I still have my wits, while I can resist.
Voices boomed from the rooftop, panic coloring the conversation.
Do they think I’m dead? If so, why do I hear fear in their voices?
The bickering continued, closer now, the voices nearly at the rim.
“If you’ve killed him it’s your ass,” said a voice that could only belong to Oren Thrako, then more softly, “and mine too. The Ray is not a forgiving man.”
Ren wanted to laugh, but his throat was too dry, his lips too cracked. He coughed, his chest heaving, his body shuttering.
“He’s alive,” Oren exhaled in relief before the anger returned. “Fucking runt’s alive. Get him up. It’s time to meet the Ray.”
5
Following the morning’s tournament, after Merit Hark-Wadi, the first daughter of Harkana, had bestowed laurels on the champions, after Shenn, her husband, had read out the names of the victors and the vanquished, Merit retired to her bedchamber. Her waiting women greeted her there and removed her blue linen dress, stripped the gold from her hair, and brushed out her long black locks. They rubbed moringa oil and lime into her skin, drew green malachite around her eyes, and painted her lips with ochre and her arms with carob. Merit sat still as long as she could, then waved them off with a jingle of her bangled wrist. “Please,” she said, “I just want to lie down for a moment. I want to rest before the gathering. It’s so hot today, and the games were so bloody. I ask not to be disturbed.”
“What if the king asks for you?” asked Ahti, her servant.
“My father is away and I ask not to be disturbed. By anyone.”
Ahti bowed, a gleam in her eye. Merit was sure she and Samia knew her secret, but it did not matter, her ladies were loyal to her alone, she had seen to it. Besides, no one would believe the word of a servant over the king’s daughter.
When they were gone, Merit placed a green-stemmed flower on the stones outside her chamber door, then returned to her stool and waited. The flower’s rosemary scent clung to her fingers as she rubbed them across her arm.
There was a time when she’d had more suitors than she could count. Even when she was a stripling, she’d had boys twice her age shadowing her through the corridors, leaving blue-tipped lotuses at her door or poppies on her bed. Despite her age and marriage, little had changed.
Merit waited, tracing a circle on the floor with her foot. Her servants had scrubbed the stone that day, the girls had worked the weathered rock with brushes made from palm twine—polishing the stone until its amber color shone. Her visitor would notice such things—just as he would notice the way the malachite made her changeable eyes glow green.
When he came at last, he did not knock. Instead he opened the door with a bang, catching Merit in his long limbs. She embraced him and stepped back, looking behind her as the door banged shut. “You saw the bud?”
He held up the white flower and nodded, “Good thing too, it would be a shame if I kicked down someone else’s door.”
“Careful,” she said.