Andrei
There are some who believe all things are inevitable, that choice is only an illusion. Then, there are those who believe all things are probable, that every action—every reaction—is a matter of statistics. To those individuals, choice is paramount. I envied the latter, because the six women surrounding me held my destiny in their hands.
That morning, I stood in the centre of the hexagonal chamber while six pairs of grey eyes may as well have drilled me into the floor. It was still before dawn, so the light coming through the glass roof was minimal, yet the torches on the wall remained cold and dark. I knew the reason—they expected me to lose my temper, to lose control over my power and accidentally set the room on fire. There was no need for light, anyhow. We all saw well in the dark.
This was not the first time I stood before the Assembly. When I was eight, nine, and eleven, I stood trial for abuse of power and assault—accidental, but criminal nonetheless. At twelve, I stood before them once more. The ruling was not unanimous but it was decided: I was a hopeless risk to public safety, and was committed to solitary confinement where I studied theology until the age of seventeen.
This was a lonely endeavour, most of which involved rote memorization and a suspension of disbelief.
From seventeen to eighteen, I toured the world on my pilgrimage, and as much as I appreciated the chance to immerse myself in Auditoria’s six distinct cultures, I didn’t know what to do with the freedom after being held in a silver cell for so many years, and the majority of my interactions with the locals lacked in social grace. But, it was also where I first met the love of my life in person, and at eighteen, I stood before the Assembly again to speak in her testimony. Now, at nineteen—all grown up yet still unsure of who I was, or what I’d become—I prepared to face their questions for what I hoped would be the last time.
From behind her podium, Councilwoman Faust forced a smile as the ceremony began. What would otherwise be a passable gesture of reassurance from her, seemed almost sinister from the shadows in the northwestern corner of the room. The hook-nosed woman was domineering and poised in equal doses, and she was the closest thing to a mother I’d known.
“Andrei Strauss, you stand unsheathed before those who act as hand, heart, eye, ear, mind, and voice. You will reveal all that is unsaid, all that is felt, and all that is both true and false. Do you have any requests for the Assembly before we begin?”
I had plenty of requests: to proclaim affection for the woman I loved, to travel abroad with my friends without risk of senseless death, to grow old with my integrity intact, to believe in a faith of my choosing—be it in the Six, in a rock, or in nothing at all.
“I have no requests.”
The Councilwoman nodded. “Turn to the southwest.”
I stalled half a second longer than I should have, distracted by the blue robes hanging from the corner of Faust’s podium. At the very least, I thought the colour would complement my eyes. Bright grey, and the very trait which decided our fates as Partisans: blessed to serve, never to be served.
“I agree,” said the voice to the southwest. “I think you will look lovely in blue.”
My stomach churned, and the onset of anxiety triggered the twitch I’d developed in my left upper cheek. We were off to a grand start.
I was expecting the invasion of privacy from this particular Councilwoman, but it was unnerving nonetheless. I wondered when exactly she began perusing my thoughts, and then I wondered if she heard that, too. Finally, I turned to her and smiled. An awkward smile, given the circumstances, but the Councilwoman was a soothing presence—for a telepath, that is. Her freckled face was framed in bounds of curls in shades of fire, sunlight reflecting adornments of amethyst and diamond.
She was stunning.
“Why do you petition us today?” she asked.
Silly question, I thought.
“Perhaps, but I’d still like to hear your silly answer.”
There was no sense lying to a telepath. “I should be dead like the other mixed-breeds, but for some inexplicable reason, here I am—still unpredictable, still torn between two races, two powers, and two leaders—one of whom refuses to acknowledge me, let alone train me.” There was no point calling further attention to the Councilwoman in the northeast. She detested me, plain and simple. “I petition because when deciding between this, a permanent cell, or execution, this seemed by far the most attractive option."
The telepath responded with a smile, and I imagined the expressions of those behind me. From Councilwoman Faust in the northwest, I pictured her wrinkled eyes brimming with regret. From the statuesque woman in the northeast? Still and silent hatred. Fortunately, my response satisfied the fiery-haired one, and when I turned to the Councilwoman to the north, I came face to face with fascination of another variety.
The towering woman’s voice was deep and reverberant, her hair a forest of dreadlocks and braids, feathers and flowers.
I couldn't begin to tell you what exactly the empath extracted from our exchange, but as her brows pressed inward, I imagine she felt the confusion of a baby plucked from his mother’s protection. Or maybe she felt the sorrow of a child sustaining years of abuse—physical, verbal, mental—most at the hands of other children. As her hands trembled, she may have felt the regret of my bittersweet retaliation. A boy, and I admit not the cruelest of the boys, permanently disfigured by a Partisan unable to control his rage—the agony of the unwanted. I’d had years to come to terms with my pain; she was living it all at once.
The gift of empathy was not one I envied.
“You worry more for those you leave behind than you do for yourself.”
“Of course,” I replied. “I’ll most likely never see them again before they die at an unfair age. What harm could possibly come to me where I'm going?”
A sharp cough from the one who despised me, and sing-song laughter from the telepath. Through it all, the empath did not flinch. She gestured to the south.
The dark-skinned Councilwoman known as Number Two remained still throughout our encounter. A thick, single braid was draped over her shoulder, and even though I couldn't see the end, I knew it extended past her waist. Blessed with the gift of foresight, the 150-year-old woman demanded nothing but time.
At the time, I couldn’t imagine what she saw in my future other than sleeping, preaching, and reading books behind the walls of a church. Knowing what I know now, I’m quite surprised her head didn’t explode.
Once the seer had seen all she needed to see, she gestured to the northeast.
Whether by coincidence or divine intervention, a ray of sunlight poured through the glass roof, sparing me from having to look the spiteful Councilwoman in the eye. I’d been prepared for all manners of slurs and vile interrogations. I’d expected this one to come at me like a raven to a corpse. I’d dreamed about it and terrorized my waking days with the anticipation of it. But as I stood there squinting, nothing happened—nothing until a sharp whistle from the opposite corner demanded my attention.
I’d been looking forward to that encounter. For that encounter, I was entirely prepared to be unprepared.
A woman of forty-odd years, the petite Councilwoman in the southeast hadn’t thought to comb her hair—chestnut in colour and cropped short. Several of her ceremonial armour pieces were unaccounted for, leaving me with the distinct impression she’d rolled out of bed only moments before arriving.
“Councilwoman Kelly,” I said. “A pleasure.”
She snorted. “Spare me the arse-kissing. You asked what could happen to you where you’re heading? Tells me you’re picturing quiet nights at the local tavern, casual sight-seeing, and a prayer here or there. Not a chance. Soon the only sights you’ll be seeing are the bottom of boots as they’re stomping all over you. You think that one’s a nut-job?” Councilwoman Kelly swept a hand to the northeast.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
I had not personally drummed up the term nut-job, but it would do.
“Well just you wait—there’ll be nobody out there taking pity on you. There’ll be nobody out there protecting you. They’re all gonna know what you are, and they’re all gonna fear you until they hate you enough to finally kill you.”
“Terrific,” I replied.
Councilwoman Kelly clicked her tongue. “Did you miss the part about us taking pity on your sorry arse? It’s simple; I must’ve been sleeping on the job the day we spared you, and the others must’ve felt bad for being responsible for the death of your parents.”
They were trying to get me to snap as I may have done in the past, but forgive me for not being moved. I never knew my parents, and was it not forever the fault of the Assembly when a fellow Partisan died without natural cause? My parents were no exception. They’d once served as Consulates—an elite position within the Palisadian ranks. My mother, born of Celestia. My father, Amalia. The poetry of their life and death has not escaped me. They devoted their lives to conscripting Partisan children for the cause only to be forced to give up their own son. Their interracial affair was a poorly kept secret, and I was the result of their blasphemy. Yet, on the sixth day of the eighth month in the year 824, I stood moments away from becoming a priest.
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That evening, I took solace for the final time in my Palisade chambers, pondering upon all I’d be leaving behind: books which were never mine, furniture passed from Partisan to Partisan, a lumpy bed. As I packed away all that was my own—a modest collection of quills, inks, and the journals of my pilgrimage—I thought of all I stood to gain. Books which would not be mine. Furniture passed from Partisan to Partisan. Another lumpy bed. Nevertheless, the church in Oskari would eventually become home, and it would also become a purpose more than I’d ever known.
For a time as I brooded, I stood before the window, scowling at my transformation. Blue robes, full at the sleeves and trimmed with silver silk. My hair, long and black as pitch, was secured with a blue ribbon. It wouldn't have been my first choice in accessory, but the ribbon was a gift. It was my most valuable possession.
Often my appearance reminded me of my heritage. I had my mother’s complexion, surely. Pale—sickly, some might say—and smooth as sanded stone. I had inherited the typical Celestian build as well. Tall, willowy, and under perpetual threat of being blown over. As for what had come from my father? I suspected the sharpness of my cheekbones and the prominent bridge of my nose. The pair had produced a compelling specimen. In retrospect, an attribute I regret not better using to my advantage. But as a young man of nineteen, I couldn’t see my own beauty. I saw only red.
A spattering of knocks interrupted the impulse to put my fist through the window, and the door swung open without so much as a call to make sure I was dressed. They barged in and, like untrained puppies, showered me with filth and noise. They—Michael Reider, Feargus Finlay, and Rhian Sinclair. My friends had come to congratulate me. As if there’d been any doubt.
“Nice dress,” Reider said.
I sighed, ignoring the warrior who had risen fast through the ranks to attain the title of First Commander. We had little in common other than our mutual friends. Truth be told, I’d always been jealous of the man. The perfect example of Amalia’s design for Her divine servants—stalwart, noble, competent.
“We waited outside your room all morning to say goodbye before we got bored and left,” Finlay remarked. “I’m glad we didn’t miss you.”
The entire affair was irritating when I’d hoped to leave without a scene. Still, it was impossible to be angry with the fun-loving Strachan and the sandy mop atop his head. Agent Finlay was deceptively small, but I knew not to cross him. Underneath the quick grin, the pint-sized Strachan pulled a lot of weight as one of the Assembly’s favourites.
That day, the Commander and Finlay obeyed protocol in wearing their off-duty uniforms—grey pants, matching tunic, and armbands of blue and red respectively. On the other hand, Rhian Sinclair wore tattered black clothes beneath a black leather chest piece. A battered flask hung from her belt alongside a pair of daggers. I couldn’t imagine her trousers being any tighter. Not that I hadn’t made the effort, but of course, I couldn’t tell that to anyone—Sinclair least of all.
“How’s it feel knowing you’re probably not gonna die afore the age of thirty?” Enforcer Rhian Sinclair was always the one who knew how best to strike. An assassin of lies and men. The biggest of women in the smallest of Strachan bodies.
“Underwhelming,” I replied. I took no pleasure in escaping the violent fates the majority of our brethren could not.
Feargus Finlay flopped down on the bed I had painstakingly made that morning, raising an unmarked bottle to the pungent air. “Reckon we ought to celebrate.”
“I think not,” I replied.
Michael Reider clicked his tongue. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Don’t be disappointed, Commander. We may very well see each other again.”
“Aye—you two might, with you both being Amali and all,” Finlay remarked. “But what about us, Strauss? It could be twenty years or never.”
“Bloody hells. I’d really hate for it to be twenty years,” Sinclair added, as if she would prefer forever. Frankly, forever would be best.
“And there we have it,” I said.
“What?” the three chorused.
I smiled, tight-lipped. “A cause for celebration.”
This was untrue. I dreaded twenty years or never, and I had no interest in celebrating my grand accomplishment of absolutely nothing with the companions I’d do best to forget. Still, the statement produced the intended effect when Sinclair flashed a chipped-tooth smile in my direction. An endearing feature—a broken incisor said to have been earned in a tavern brawl at the age of eight. One should always take into account a Strachan’s aptitude for spinning stories, but Sinclair had never been one for telling whole lies.
And so it went. We reminisced while my three companions drank from the green bottle. It was as if nothing had changed while everything had, and as we fell short on memories, Michael Reider expressed his concern about the latest unrest in the northern territory of Endica. Much of what he knew was classified, so it was a rather vague conversation. Rhian Sinclair, ever restless, griped about the punishment for her latest indiscretions. I could not help feeling guilty. I was—in equal part—the reason Sinclair had been landlocked and forbidden from working beyond the Isle of Palisade. It was a chance encounter turned disastrous and a tale for another time.
The eventual departures of Michael Reider and Feargus Finlay did not go unmarked. From the Commander, I received the traditional fist-to-heart salute, something of an embrace, and three sets of long underwear intended to protect against the Amali winters.
In turn, Feargus Finlay presented me with a knife unlike any I’d seen before. It had a short handle, a black blade, and according to Finlay, was, “Near as tough as diamonds, mate.” When I reminded him that I was no longer permitted to bear arms, he patted my back and insisted it was a utensil.
And then, still seated on the corner of my desk, only Sinclair remained.
“Well, this is awkward on account of I didn’t get you anything.”
“Fair enough,” I replied. “I can’t imagine where you’d have found the time.”
Sinclair smiled. I could always count on her to appreciate sarcasm. After all, she’d had nothing but time over these last few months.
“You know, it isn’t too late to change your mind.”
“Actually, Sinclair, it is.”
“Not if we find a way off this rock and hijack your embark on the way to the land that smells like shite. If you’re gonna go on the lam last minute, we ought to go with you. Wouldn’t want you dying suddenly seeing as I’d probably be the one sent to kill you.”
How I wished to lean forward and nibble upon those fast-talking lips. I refrained.
“If I had any desire to run, I’d have devised a plan long ago. And if you and Finlay had any real desire to defect from Palisade, I’m certain you’d have done so already.”
“Maybe,” she conceded. “On the other hand, you could just stay here.”
“So the Assembly can lock me away for eternity? No, I don’t think so.”
“It’d be just like old times, Strauss, getting myself thrown into solitaire for a chance at a chat with our resident fuck-up.”
“You know, Sinclair, there's a saying about pots calling kettles black.”
“What kind of saying is that? It doesn’t even make any sense.”
“Because pots are black, and kettles are also black.”
Sinclair waved a hand dismissively, reaching for the green bottle Finlay left behind.
“I’ll miss your face,” she said, followed by a swig.
I'd miss her face, too. Her up-turned nose, freckled cheeks, and plump lower lip. Her features were pleasant, but they were hardened by thin, white scars, occasional bruises, and a perpetually furrowed brow. I'd miss her face, but more than that, I'd miss her. I’d emerged from solitary a stronger person thanks to the maverick who often occupied the cell beside me. I knew the Strachan by name and voice alone for four years—listening and talking through walls, living vicariously through her deeds and wishing that one day I’d have a story of my own to tell.
But they say, "Be careful what you wish for," and I'd get everything I wished for. I'd get my story, and then my story would become our story, and on the sixth day of the eighth month in the year 824, it begins.