Deft hands may have guided Leris further than his wandering mind ever could, but the limits of his abilities had never been as apparent as now. Caked in viscous red with only the crashing sea waves washing them an ashen shade, his hands shook. And it wasn’t the chattering and shaking of every bone in his body that worried him: it was what remained still.
The fiery brush from the cliffside above left a wall of smoke at every escape other than the endless ocean and what existed beyond. A putrid charred scent — a mix of flesh, hair, dampened logs, and the remains of twenty some lives — reached Leris’ nostrils, and a lump formed in the back of his throat.
He may have welcomed the cold air as it swept in from the bay and chilled his flesh: all that had been left a sickly shade of pink. Soon, what was stiff would shrivel and turn into a bed of boils. It wasn’t the pain that left Leris frightened most of all. Still numb, he hadn’t yet comprehended that from his left shoulder to his sternum and from his left knee to the tips of his toes, he had caught fire. All who approached that winding road as the distant minstrels marched had.
What claimed flesh wasn’t the typical type of flames that sat atop the stove and had the kettle whistling so shrill in the morning, nor was it the type that lit the Long-Dark Solstice’s hay guardian ablaze and welcomed the new year. It shined brighter than any deity behind the stars’ light and flickered, not like flames, but like a sharp-fanged stalker.
More peculiar than the flames’ shifting hues and the frantic dance it performed as it struck its prey was where it had come from. Caravans from beyond the highest mountains should’ve given rise to some suspicion. Where razored crags thought impassible kept the settlers from exploring the inner east of the island, the minstrels came with no trouble. The songs they sang — pan pipes easing all who listened into a gentle twilight — may have helped to give some false sense of security. Once the screams had started, it had all been too late.
Still, Leris’ palm pounded against ribs that only grew colder. As he beat against the man’s chest, nothing beat back. An unclouded mind might have known to accept defeat, but he reached for rocks and driftwood. Whatever was near and sharp enough came into his grasp as sand filtered under the cracks in his fingernails.
Tiny cuts left his arms swollen until at once, a stream of red flowed. He held the wound above the man’s lips — more blood collecting in his stark white mustache than atop his tongue. Once the stream came to a halt, Leris held the man’s jaw shut. Lifting his head, pressing against his neck, and pleading all at once did nothing to help him swallow.
Light-headed, Leris crashed against the sand. The ocean’s waves might have swept the two of them away, and that was a fate Leris wouldn’t have minded entirely. His eyes darted to the cliffs; if the invaders wished it, they could have put him out of his misery before long. But beyond crackling embers, the brush had gone silent.
If he even had the strength to lift himself, he wondered what more could have been done. His blood may have staved off infection and tended to his wounds far sooner than what others could have hoped for, but it could not bring the dead back to the world of the living; there were some wounds nothing could ever heal.
So with eyelids as heavy as stone and a mind trapped in a perpetual tumble, the boy rested. What he’d wake to — if he woke at all — was a world where the paint would be scrubbed from the canvas even if it’d always remained stained. A world like that... Leris had to wonder how long until the fibers only frayed and there remained no foundation upon which to build.
Pounding drums wouldn’t allow him to drift into a gentle slumber; they wouldn’t allow him to flee or dream. Scrunching his body into a misshapen ball, he hoped to be assumed dead. And why wouldn’t he be? Beaten and broken down — burned and dripping blood — death’d only claim him as it did all of those who shared their language and faith with him. Or rather, it would if he hadn’t felt the itch.
As if insects had burrowed beneath his skin and laid eggs to hatch, the itch radiated from everywhere blood once flowed. A thin layer of flesh covered and cradled the wounds he had cut. Boils burst soon after they had formed, and after faint screams, they cooled.
One eyelid gently creaked open, and the other followed suit. What had once been smoke had become a wall of flames. Before the heat could dry his torn tunic and reignite the singed tips of his pearly locks, he spied faces popping out of the wall like embers.
Every eyeball on those bodiless heads locked onto him, and another cry escaped Leris’ lips. As the heads tumbled down the cliffs, they burst. Those monstrosities were ones he spotted before — crawling out from the minstrels pipes before the musicians themselves huffed a breath of fire.
“Run.”
His thoughts needed not urge him any more than they already had. Wobbling and woozy, Leris crawled from the water’s edge and pushed himself to his feet. Once he heard the pan pipes flutter, he quickened his pace. The coasts had caves. He and Pitoy — someone he might have called his own brother if they had more time together — had once gotten so lost in the darkness that it had taken Father Eggars and the others an entire week to find them.
Leris wished to return to that time. To dine at a table beside twenty-seven others — butter-soaked bread flaking between his fingers and fresh malt at the ready. To be led in prayer — even to a God that’d never cast a fleeting gaze to those with tainted blood. To have endless promises spinning through his mind: of hope, of family, of… They had all faded.
Dampened sand on the soles of his feet nearly sent him tumbling. As rocks from the cliffside fell, he knew it was even more imperative to find himself lost deep in those tight, lightless caverns. So, as the song followed him, he escaped into silence. Only when all noise had muffled, his eyes saw only emptiness to where they might have been gouged out, and the itch throughout his body had all but subsided could he exhale. But where he found safety, he also found loneliness. That feeling would only fester as much as it’d grow.
A day would come when he could escape isolation. Or perhaps he’d flee from the cavern in a fit of hunger, only to hear those drums and wailing pipes once more. Where then would salvation come from? Leris would rather not question it. Once his surroundings were sufficiently silent, and once his swift breathing had left his light-headed, he slept. Rather, he hadn’t the energy for much else.
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Creaking and rocking, the ship’s warping boards kept the boy alert. If not for that, it’d be the waves twisting and churning along with his gut. Most of all, it was the two uniformed men who hadn’t given him a moment of peace before he was detained and loaded into the cell.
“Leris Annac. Age: sixteen. An orphan before the pilgrims took you in. And as of the recent tragedy, an orphan once more. Is all of this information correct so far?”
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His neck had been firmly bound and chained, but a quick nod was all that was needed to prompt the stiff-backed official to continue. Any more than that and the bruises on his cheeks would stretch down his neck and arms. Any less and the punishment would likely be the same.
“As regrettable of a fate it may be, there’s no denying the... convenience of your survival. All twenty-seven travelers: burned to where their own bones turned to ash. And yet you live — a savage from the Taretti Outlands and one with more to gain from their deaths than any-”
A second official with a voice not as shrill responded, “We’ve been at it for hours. I don’t imagine he’s had much to eat in the days following the ‘ambush’. It’s been a while since we’ve had our luncheon as well. I say we break for now.”
A greater surprise than that of the Magistrate’s officials even entertaining his story was that they stopped at chains rather than cutting him down outright. The double-edged and leaf-shaped bladed short swords that sat on their belts didn’t fill him with much hope, nor did the rows of daggers fastened across their chests. Once they had broken him down and forced out whatever words he had stuck at the back of his tongue, he’d be easily discarded. The trouble was, he hadn’t any words to give them — none he fully understood himself, in any case.
What was a rescued ruffian from the Outlands if not a burden, after all? The New Hope’s Mission wouldn’t have been the first nor the last to take in a stray who only bit the hand that fed them. Even if it wasn’t the case, it was the easiest story to tell. When the Magistrate demanded to know why a pack of pilgrims had fallen victim to a horrific crime, ‘inconclusive’ was not a sufficient answer.
“Fine. But you can bring him the scraps yourself. I need... a breather after all of this.”
One official took their leave while the other remained. Cold eyes fell onto Leris who scrunched his face and braced for the strike’s impact. The man’s hand never connected, however. Peeking — still uncertain he was in the clear — the boy dared not ask unnecessary questions. And he had no reason to either, as the official did all the talking he desired.
“We’re not all given the stage to showcase our talents. I’m sure you know that better than most. You’re no stranger to chains like these. Your homeland. They kept you locked up like this, didn’t they? Starved you. Drugged you. Tainted your blood and made it what it is. But that left you with a talent — a talent you certainly hadn’t the means to express cooped up in the chapel or out in the fields.”
A response might have been warranted, but Leris kept his lips sealed. For every word the man spoke, he listened past it to hear its true intent. Schemes were always ever present back in the Malduri Mainland where an official’s reports often deemed whether one’d sleep peacefully in the residential towers circling the Magistrate’s Governance Hall or whether one’d be shipped off to do his nation’s dirty work.
The official flashed his pearly whites that were barely a shade brighter than Leris’ long locks that had been tied and braided at his nape, “If you had done it... And don’t get me wrong. I don’t believe you have. But if you did, I, for one, wouldn’t hold it against you — not entirely. A boy your age. After all you’ve been through. When freedom would’ve been just barely outside your grasp-”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Leris paused. It had to have been bait, but an accusation so insidious was one he couldn’t bear, “You won’t believe me. My story, however, will never change. I saw what I saw. Minstrels coming down from the mountains spawning horrors that...”
What was once a grin turned to a snicker. Taking the chain that held Leris’ neck in his hand, the official sighed, “I’d like to think I’ve been easier on you than most. I’m even willing to hear out this ‘tale’ of yours. A mysterious group of individuals — living out in a land thought uninhabited — just so happen to have possessed some peculiar magic and used said magic to slaughter families... women and children. Father Eggars, a man of the Gods.”
Yanking the chain and causing the boy to yelp, the official continued, “Oh. And let’s not forget. They just so happen to have mysteriously disappeared — just in time before we sailors had come for tax collection. I suppose they were frightened that they’d owe a hefty sum to the Magistrate for so many years of missed payment. Or what? Do you think there was another reason for their spontaneous departure?”
“Like I said, I left the cave... it had to have been days. I was starved... weak. I saw no signs of any of them. They left the rubble just as it had been and the bodies, too. I-”
What little air had been left in Leris’ lungs had all but depleted once the official raised the chain high. Kicking into the air as his feet lifted from the ground and swaying his bound hands, the boy pleaded for his life in all the ways he could when words were no longer an option. His captor, unfortunately, granted no sympathy.
“Look, kid. All I’m saying is, if you’re going to fess up, do it to me. The rest of these loyal mutts? They’ll have you hung up in the market. All who love and cherish the Gods will take their turn beating, bruising, burning... Not all too different from the pilgrims’ fate, now is it? I’ve got to wonder. In the end, do you think all men scream the same-”
A knock on the cell door had the official loosening his grip and letting Leris fall. Hacking aloud, the boy caught his breath, all while his tormentor blocked his peers’ entry. Even if another were to see him — lips cracked, flesh yellowed, and bones jutting out beneath his tunic — Leris doubted any would stand at his defense. After all, the case would be closed once he was named the killer. The officials would get their bonus sans what was docked for not collecting the pilgrims’ taxes, and he’d be hung as it was said. Perhaps, he thought, it would have been better just to have withered in that cave.
“Give me ten more minutes with him. I’m making headway. Enjoy your lunch. This will be easy. Go now. Shoo.”
Between his all-too-eager smile and his demands for a confession, the official proved an unsettling foe. Leris considered lying and being done with it. It’d be quick and easy. Although, it would not be painless. Any hope of a life without pain or worry had surely gone the moment he beat against Father Eggars’ still heart and tried and vain to feed him the blood that only seemed to prolong the inevitable rather than heal.
“I’ve seen what you Outlander kids can do,” the official continued as he circled around Leris, “If you survived among those savages as long as you did... Well, only the scrappiest survive. If you did kill Father Eggars and the others — and I do mean if — then this wouldn’t be your first time killing would it? It’s just what one has to do to survive, after all.”
Head hung low, the boy said, “I’ll repeat the words you tell me if demanded, but I won’t claim them as my own. Label me a liar before a killer. I’ll take the punishment all the same, but the guilt remains with those minstrels.”
The official sighed, “An attitude like that won’t help you live very long. Well, if you’re sticking to your story, so be it. There’s still time. Forty-six more days at sea. The Magistrate won’t like this one bit though. They’re due to lose a lot from their investment. And one doesn’t rise to power making bad deals.”
“Like I said, I’ll take whatever punish-”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard you. But that’s not helping my bottom line. In a way, it’s a shame you’re not a killer, really. Someone with your talents... Why, they’d prove mighty useful. One might even say you’re worth more to the Magistrate in chains than dead. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
On one hand, forcing a confession was all the officials would need to forgo a trial and drag their prized criminal through the streets. But on the other, if he lived — if his charges were expunged and if he was given the chance to start anew... Leris thought it a childish daydream, but he owed it to the family who had taken him in to bring their killers to justice.
“What... Do you propose?”
Stretched wide like a gash across his face, the official’s grin twisted. The faces from the flames flooded Leris’ mind, and his breathing quickened. Everything quickened: the man’s footsteps as he paced in circles, the swinging of the chain that held his neck in place, and the chatter from outside the cell walls.
It had to be a trick and a trap at that, but was there any better alternative? It was either die for the crimes of another or die for... Well, Leris didn’t quite know what the official had in mind for him, but a shady deal was better than no deal at all. No matter what was said or asked of him, he resolved himself to oblige. If he was the last person living to know of the minstrels’ treachery, he was the last to put an end to them.
Reaching for the chain once again, the official pulled the boy to him. His smile had faded, “You keep your head down and your nose in any book the Magistrate gives you. Give it three years... Maybe five or more. It’ll be hard work. You’ll be kicked and beaten. But good mutts get their reward — particularly if they’re useful.”