Chapter 17: Cross to bier (Cradle of Bones)

(HELLYEAH)

They are in a clearing - some kind of pit - in the desert. As the noonday sun licks at her skin with tongues of fire, she slumps forward, the thick ropes around her torso biting into skin. She is tied to a cross, which stands in the middle of a stage with rows of seating in a crescent around it. On one end, next to the entrance, is a dais, exulted on wooden poles. Upon this stands a large winged-back chair, covered in reddish leather. King Vasiliev, leader of the Bykov Clan, sits there. Luka’s grandfather observes her.

Slightly behind him, to the right and left, are two royal guards with hands behind their backs. Both of the tall, bulky men glare at Blaire as if she is their mortal enemy. King Vasiliev’s chin juts out at her like an accusation. They all are fighting to keep composure.

Blaire inhales deeply. Death is not an enemy she fears; it is a friend she longed to meet since Gavin passed. It only intensified over the last ten years, and since the death of her Clan it has been with her every second of the day and night. Not even knowing Uncle B and Nancy were on The Farm, setting things right, can remove this longing for death. They will rebuild Red King’s legacy without her. Nobody needs her here in this realm.

There is a movement to the left of her. Her eyes jump there. It is Catriona, hovering in the air between her and the Bull Clan members. Blaire smiles, feeling less alone in the world. Sisterly solidarity is something else Luka stole from her.

“The Bull Tribe took everything,” she whispers. “They left me nothing to cherish. So, fuck them, sis. Fuck them all. I want to set their shit on fire, and then bury them. Bury them deep.”

She expected to be tortured and killed. She fears neither. Mentally, she is prepared for any physical suffering. What she didn’t expect was the sun. It is draining her from every ounce of energy. That, and the flies buzzing around her face, settling on bleeding wounds. Between the insects and the sun, she is itching all over. Death is uncomfortable, but should it be annoying too?

“You killed those men in the most horrible way,” a voice says behind her.

It is familiar. She doesn’t need to see the face to know it is Luka’s brother. She smiles, turning her head to look at him.

“Hello, Igor,” she says.

He steps forward, coming into view on the left. She knows him as a level-headed man, but the loss of a dear one can shake even a Bull like him, apparently.

“And Pyotr too,” he adds, slowly walking to stand in front of her.

“I didn’t kill him,” she states, trying not to express shock at the news on her face. “You got to me before I could finish. If he dies, it’s on you.”

In the spectator portion of the little amphitheater, people watch restlessly. Whispers abound. Bull Tribe members huddle together in small groups. Some embrace others. Tears and weeping. No children. They think this is going to be too ugly for their kids to see. Blaire wishes the sun to go down. She drags her tongue across chapped lips. The petty act brings no relief to her tired mind or her bruised mouth.

“Whenever you are ready to talk,” Igor says. “Then we can let you off this cross.”

“No need,” she answers with a wretched grin. “I didn’t come here with the intention of ever leave again. I belong on this cross. I’ve been walking with a cross on my back for ten years. I’m ready to die. I’m a little bundle of mania; a suicide waiting to happen. Just set me on fire: make this a pyre. Let me die in fire, like I had to bury my people. You already set my world on fire. Let me ride to my grave in flames.”

Behind him, on the dais, King Vasiliev’s face stays unemotional, but the velocity of puffs on his pipe increases. He recovers quickly, unlike Igor, who shows no emotion at all, his eyes pinning her fiercely to the pole. Under the brutal sun, his color changes at least two shades lighter. Despite that, he has perfect control over the rest of his body, not flinching even once.

“Why do you want to die?”

“Let me see,” she says. “I have no family left. First my child died. Then my husband, my sister, and now my entire clan. I’m all alone in this world with nothing to live for. Why would I want to live? And don’t tell me my death isn’t what you have longed for all these years.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He shakes his head from side-to-side, his face not revealing anything.

“I don’t understand you, Blaire. Surely, being alone in the world isn’t new for you. You haven’t seen or talked to your family since Luka died. Since you killed him, actually.”

She merely nods, deciding not to reply to him. There is no benefit to her refuting the truth. It’s a waste of energy. She needs to hold on for a while longer.

“People whisper you probably killed your child too,” he says through clenched lips. “You never wanted children. Everyone knows this.”

His words slide into her heart like a sharp sword. She was ready for physical pain, but never expected such an accusation. He smiles at her afflicted reaction, happy to see her wounded.

“He has a name,” she says, fighting hard to keep the anger out of her voice. “Gavin, after Luka’s people.”

“White hawk?” He spits the name back at her. “Luka was my brother. We are from the Bull Clan. Why did you name him after a bird?”

She turns her head aside, peering at the horizon. Catriona is no longer visible, leaving her all alone to face the world. There will be no hero to ride out to save the day, no god to rescue her, no angel to comfort her. Everyone travels down the road to the grave alone. She’s been on it for ten long years.

“He had no Bull blood,” she says, turning her full attention to Igor. “Only mine and his father’s. Snake and Bird, after his grandmother. Mostly Bird blood, though. If only…”

Unable to finish, she looks across Igor’s shoulder at his grandfather on the throne. She wonders if he is sad about the child at all. Or was he disappointed that the boy wasn’t a strong Bull?

“If only what?”

“If only he had more Snake blood. Or even a bit of Bull. Either way, he would have been stronger.”

“Which brings us back to the fact that you can’t lose what you don’t have. You’re cut off from your family for ten years, Blaire. You lost them when you killed Luka and ran away like a coward.”

“That might be true, but I still had them. As long as they were alive and happy, they belonged to me, even though we were apart. I knew, like they did, that I could, and at some point would, return home.”

He turns to look at King Vasiliev. “So now you want to die?”

“Why not? What else is there for me? In this world, everyone wants to use me. Everyone wants something from me. A little piece of magic. A spell. A charm. A fix for their problem. And then, when they receive it, they treat me like a plague. One day soon, someone will tie me to a pyre and set it on fire while the onlookers chant as I burn. Year in and year out, I live on the edge of darkness, always expecting the worst. The only comfort I had was my family, safe and happy, flourishing on The Farm. Now they are no longer there and I have no anchor. Can you blame me for trying to escape this cruel world?”

The grin on his lips doesn’t change at her words. He continues to look hard and unaffected by their conversation. Time passes by like a frozen river. She feels cold too, even under the sun’s glare. Death is cold too, but she’s been cold since Gavin’s death. Dead in all the ways that matter. Luka could have brought her back to life, but he gave up on their marriage long before Gavin.

“You believe death would be kinder?” Igor asks. “Do you think God will have mercy on your soul? Should we say a prayer over your grave? Ask the Lord your soul to keep?”

She snickers, wondering what he’d say if she told him the last appointment she had was with the Devil himself. Would he feel fear then? Would that shake him in his snake-leather boots?

As if he can read her mind, he steps forward, leaning into her space. A knife appears in his right hand. He twirls it between his fingers with the expertise of a professional. Under his shoes the sand shifts, sending sounds of bones being crushed to her ears. Blaire closes her eyes for a second longer than needed. When she opens them again, his face is right in front of hers, up close and very personal.

“Luka always told me you were steady like a rock,” he whispers. “That you feared nothing and no-one. You can dance on the edge of death without breaking a sweat.”

“But you don’t understand it yet, do you?”

“Understand what?”

“I’m already dead. All you see here is a shell of the real me. A really fucked up version of me. Half in and half out of this world. I long to die, Igor. Please, kill me. And when I’m dead, carve your name on my dead, black heart.”

“Don’t you feel remorse at all for what you’ve done? Don’t you feel sorry for the suffering of the men you killed? Or their families?”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. My sympathy tank is bone dry. I truly feel nothing.”

He slips the knife into her shoulder as expertly as a baker slices bread, or a butcher meat. There is no pain, only a fire burning. Hot, unrelenting fire bursting into her head. Blaire grimaces into his face. She will not cry or shout.

“Please,” she says, looking straight into his eyes. “Go ahead. Cut me. All that will achieve is to end our misery. Take me off this cross, and off the one I placed myself on all those years ago when I ran from home. End this quest for me and then bury me in a cold grave, a shallow hole, in the cradle of the earth, where all dead things belong.”

Something in his eyes changed at her words. He steps away quickly, turning to look at King Vasiliev. He shakes his head. Right before her eyes, all the bravado leaves his frame. Shoulders slumps. Hands hanging low at his side. He puts the knife back in the sheath at his side.

On the dais, King Vasiliev rises, placing his pipe aside. He motions to the guards behind him, and they step forward to walk with him down the stairs towards the entrance. Blaire hides her smile. Clearly Igor has failed at whatever he was supposed to achieve with her. There will be a change of tactics now.

“Fuck them all,” she whispers. “I’m not a porcelain doll. I’m not a plastic Barbie. I’m a criminal. A pirate. I’m a sturdy tree fighting the wind. I’m not falling apart at the hands of my enemy. I’m a fighter, a warrior. My name means battlefield, for fuck’s sake. I’m here for what I’m owed. Revenge. Vengeance. Retaliation. I hold a grudge.”