CHAPTER FIVE

Poor, Unloved Maerin

It was full sunup, and the hallways were lit by slatted light from between the boarded windows. The halls of the seventh floor were quiet and still. Only the ash underfoot moved, swirling around ankles before brushing up against the walls. Leta had a fleeting thought about sweeping; it had been some time, but of course, that was ridiculous. Dead or alive, she’d never see this place again. The thought struck her, and her eyes filled with useless tears. She was just tired and hungry. She coughed, clearing her throat. “Could I have one of those sugar bulbs?”

“Of course,” said Clark, proffering one behind his back as he continued to walk quickly through the hallway. His movement gave Leta no doubt that he knew exactly where he was going. As she bit into the sugary-sweet bun, she wondered how. The Divine Sjlunroca held hundreds of prisoners in four distinct towers. If he’d only been here for several days, as he said he had, he would have needed to spend almost every waking minute to have the place mapped out.

Leta’s brow crinkled, and she spoke through a mouth full of pastry. “Where are we going?”

“I told you—we’re going to Alia’s Tower.”

“But why?”

“Because that’s how we’re going to escape. Why don’t you focus on chewing with your mouth shut and I’ll focus on the plan.”

Leta had to put a hop in her step to keep up with Clark’s long strides. “Will you slow down? I don’t want to look like I’m running,” she said in hushed tones.

“Very well, but do your best. I don’t want to miss it.”

Leta had to forcibly bite back her retort of “miss what?” but by this time she was getting the idea that she wasn’t going to get any answers until Clark was ready to give them to her. She might as well enjoy her food and try to come up with her own plan.

Everyone in the ‘Roc knew a story of someone who had escaped, who, by luck and valor, got out past the Order, the double-thick stone walls, the pit of half-horse, half-dog, hoofhounds, and finally, the outer guards. They almost didn’t make it, but by sheer tenacity, they tunneled out, climbed over, and fought or fucked their way to freedom. Leta asked the Mad Madam once if it was true. “Dead,” she had said, “every stinking one of them.”

It had never even occurred to Leta to try and escape, not in any real sense. Besides her unbreakable gilt cuffs was her face: the mirror image of her sister’s, the queen. Mirror twins, they were called, down to the freckle on Leta’s right cheek and Dagna’s left. Bonne had resented those freckles for breaking up the smooth perfection of their skin, but she and Dagna used to put them together when they sat reading a book or gossiping together. A sensation like a hand wrenching at her heart tore a pained sound from Leta, and she refocused on the ever-present horror of the here and now.

“No one escapes from the Divines,” she said, a bit more petulance in her voice than she would have preferred.

“Oh? You know everyone who has ever been incarcerated in a Divine?”

“No, but I know a lot more than you do.”

“How could you possibly know how much I know? Besides, I find that people are often even intimately familiar with the inventory of their own minds. Okay, turn here.”

They tucked around a statue of Sjlunroca holding hands with Asha and into Maerin’s tower. Shit.

The tower was named for Asha’s child Maerin, the only child of The Cattoleiri born without the ability to use song. All the other children of the Cattoleiri, as it was told, were able to create great wonders with magic woven from chords, harmonies, and voice. But not Maerin. Leta couldn’t remember if she had read something that had referred to Maerin as “poor unloved Maerin”—but that’s what he always was in her mind. The poor unloved child, forsaken by his own mother for her inability to do the impossible. Poor Maerin.

Leta thought she knew why Maerin’s tower felt like it was haunted by a malevolent presence. She had known many unloved people and there was something missing, right from the center of them. But it was empty for only so long before it started to work like a vacuum, and suck in bits and pieces into the hole that was left. Only, all it ever found was the left-over and cast-out bits from others and their heart festered and rotted—just like Maerin’s very own tower.

Maerin’s tower was quiet—only—not quite. Their every step caused the building to lurch and complain against the intrusion. Despite Clarkson beside her, she felt Maerin’s malevolent presence watching her. At least it was mostly empty of other prying eyes. People did not live in Maerin’s tower, though sometimes they came here to die.

The corners of the hall were covered in spiderwebs, and fools’ hangings and the air sat heavy with dust. Leta took a hankerchief from her satchel and pulled it over her head, leaving just enough open in front to see by. She stepped carefully down the hall, trying not to draw Maerin's reproachful attention.

Leta affected a hobbled canter and a wet cough. Clark took the hint and placed his hands on her back as if he were helping her walk. Nothing kept people away like infectious disease. Many of the doors were open as she walked down the dark hall, but there was no noise of life, and she felt more darkness than just the darkness she could see. How was it so dim with the sun on the rise? As she passed down forgotten halls, a shiver ran down her spine, and she tried to shake off the feeling of eyes upon her. She focused on her breath and the small patches of light, like dying embers on the floor. She did not listen to the hollowness around her, and she did not wonder what caused all sound to be quickly sucked away.

Twelve more steps. Twelve more steps, and she would be out of Maerin’s tower and into Patria’s. Hopefully from there, Clark’s plan would play itself out. But of course, in the life of Leta Kallah, things never worked out as they should—the sins of our past demand their debts.

“Wadu’s asshole, it’s cold in here”

“That’s a clever one from a ring-trained lady.”

“The Aria has no ring.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“We’ve a ways to go.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Leta yanked her arm out of Clarkson’s grip, mostly out of annoyance at not having her answers, but she let him lead her down the hall. As they turned a corner, they passed a child with an ash-stained face clutching a stuffed toy in his hand. Leta tried not to make eye contact, but as she neared him, she realized he was no child. It was a man of indeterminate age, withered and twisted into childish proportions by malnutrition and illness—probably the peddler’s cough. Leta knew she shouldn’t look more closely at what he was holding, but her curious eyes betrayed her. It was a rat, of course, and as they passed him, he raised it to his mouth. A squeal rang out behind them as they passed by the small man and his breakfast.

Clarkson shivered against Leta and took a bracing breath. “Almost there,” he said a little too loudly, likely thinking he could drown out any future noises from either rodent or man.

Leta heard distant footfalls over the sound of Clark’s self-righteousness and fell behind him in step as they exited Maerin’s tower and passed a group of other prisoners, casting her eyes down. They were a motley crew, a small woman leading another woman and a large man. They didn’t seem interested in either Clark or herself. She let out a shaky breath as they passed one another, realizing that she was terrified they would be on the lookout for her. But that was crazy. They’d just left Leta’s quarters a dozen minutes ago. The body wouldn’t be found until morning rounds, and even then, it would have to filter through the Order before Tarisof would send his men looking for her. Most times, when there was a death in the ‘Roc, the Order would simply send the body out with a simple explanation, “overdosed on illegal contraband” or “altercation with another prisoner.” Only, Leta didn’t think this explanation would be quite so simple. Even she could not imagine what had happened to her mother.

“At least tell me how much farther we have to go.” They were still in Odin’s Tower; Leta figured they had less than half an hour before the full alert would be raised—if she was very lucky.

“Not too much farther; we should have plenty of time if we don’t dawdle and slow ourselves with too many questions.”

Leta huffed but continued to follow. If there were other options available to her, she couldn’t think of any.

They turned a corner that would lead them into Maerin’s tower and on through to Alia’s. Clark’s strides slowed a second, and Leta nearly slammed into him; she swerved around to his right, avoiding a collision at the last moment. As she pulled up to his side, she saw something. Something that made her feel like someone had grabbed her by the back of the neck and squeezed.

Perseverant.

The worshipers of the Lord Below had never bothered Leta before. While she had never been an ostensible follower of the religion, as part of the royal family, she was assumed to keep Umara's sanctioned faith. It didn’t matter whether she did or not as long as she didn’t worship any false gods, especially the Cattoleiri. The third rule of the Divine Sjlunroca was, of course, “All your gods are dead.” It was the way that the crown dealt with locking people away in temples filled to the brim with evidence of the Cattoleiri. The last thing they wanted was to release prisoners back into Umara with a new-found belief in forbidden gods. It was why the third rule was often quoted as “All your gods are dead—or you are.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Like all people who care only for their rules and not for logic, if you asked why the Lord Below wasn’t dead, they would say the Lord Below wasn’t a god. That he transcended the past limits of godhood and was a being without definition. And now they faced these murderous zealots with their arms clearly noting who they were: The Baroness of Tophra sneaking towards Maerin’s tower with a proud Cattoleirin. Leta cursed at every god she could think of, dead or alive, that she hadn’t made him put on some fucking long sleeves.

“And what have we here?” The first to speak was a thin man, his face pocked with old acne scars and his thin ponytail—the most obvious mark of his religion—falling over his shoulder, greasy and lank.

There was a shameful second in which Leta thought to sell out Clark. To tell the three that she was bringing them a heretic. It was made even more shameful that the biggest reason she didn’t is because she didn’t have a plan as to what to do without him.

“Just passing on through,” said Leta with a bow of her head. She hoped that by the time she raised her head back up, there would be three open palms ushering her on their way. Unfortunately, they seemed to be doing quite the opposite.

Leta cleared her throat, then tried to slide to the right, “He’s new here, and I’ve been assured that he’s given up the heretical religion of the—”

“Gentlemen,” Clark said, interrupting Leta and cutting off the word she was going to say— “Cattoleiri”, was she out of her mind? He spread his hands out towards them, just a gentle parent reasoning with a misbehaving child. “Let us be off. We are certainly not looking for a fight.”

“Ain’t that just the biggest sack of rotters I ever heard. You don’t come down here dressed like a cattle and expect us not to stand up against that there’s worst kind of ‘eresy?” It was one of the two men in the back. He had a ponytail as well, gathered from the hair remaining on the sides after the hair on the top of his head ran south.

The one in the front spoke next— he was clearly the leader. “Pea says true, we don’t take kindly to heresy. Just like the Order, and just like the crown.” The last word was said with a pointed look at Leta.

Leta matched his eyes but evaluated the others in her periphery best she could. The one who’d spoken before, “Pea” was older and moved like he had the spurs in his bones. They hit the knees first. If she were right, he’d go down with a good kick, though the robes would interfere with her aim. The one on the leader’s right was surprisingly heavy for someone in the ‘Roc. The robes around his waist looked fit to burst, and his skin was heavily textured. A drinker then— no tophra for this one. His hair was hardly long enough for a ponytail at all; he’d pulled what he could into a stupid spray of hair on the front of his head. He looked like an oversized toddler. She’d have to let Clark deal with that one. Then, there was the leader. He was the only real fight.

“—don’t you think?” the leader finished speaking and looked at Leta.

Asha wept. Leta hadn’t even heard the last lines of the leader’s monologue; she was too tired, too overwhelmed, and too confused to keep her eyes open, let alone deal with this.

“While I appreciate your staunch adherence to rules—” Was that Clark talking? Lord Below, save us from religious men. “We are in something of a hurry. I will be sure to turn myself in promptly once our errand is complete.”

“I don’t think that I trust you that much, cattle,” said the leader.

“Listen,” said Leta, rummaging through her satchel like she might find some answers or sanity in there. She found something better. “Here’s a silver stay. The Order never needs to know about him or that you all met today in the hallways. Give us a dozen seconds, and we’ll be gone.”

Pea and the other lackey looked at the coin lustily, but the leader wasn’t drawn in. “Oh, Baroness, you misunderstand. We’ll deal with the cattle, sure, but the real prize isn’t a silver stay—it’s you. The outer guards have sent word just now: freedom for your head.”

Freedom? Leta had heard legends of the guards offering freedom for huge bounties but had never really believed it.

“They’re coming in themselves to find you. But if I were to bring you to them first, well, there’s a lot of good I could do on the outside, bringing the Lord Below’s word to the people.”

The three men ambled towards her, like scourgecats trying not to spook their prey. They must have missed hearing messengers when they took the back ways through the ‘Roc. Leta shuffled a few steps to the right, thinking to flee back from where they came, where it would be marginally safer, but Clark stopped her, pressing his hands into her shoulders and whispering in her ear, “We need to go forward. I will handle it, just be ready to run. It’s not far now.”

Clark let her go and cleared his throat. Without the centering pressure of his hands on her arms, she grew cold and fought against a tremble. Leta shook her head—a refusal to fear rather than to Clark—she would stand with this odd religious man, and she would fight her way through.

Clark spoke with a command Leta had not yet seen in him. “I will give you one warning and one warning only: if you value your corporeal integrity, you’ll let us through.”

A confused look spread across the faces of the lackies, but not their leader. His eyes sparkled with cruel mirth. “Is that a threat? I thought you were a religious man.”

“I am a religious man and a man of my word. It was a warning, and warning alone.”

The leader spit on the floor. “Enough with this bull. Genu, Pea, you get the girl, I’ll deal with the cattle.”

Two sets of filthy hands reached out towards her, one tremulous from the drink, the other knobby with black half-moons of dirt under each of his nails. Those hands would not touch Leta. Not if there was anything she could do about it. She reached for her knife, hoping she’d have time in these close quarters, but before she managed it, there was a humming of a tune and then a scream piercing enough to make her forget what she’d been doing.

Leta looked towards the sound, still crouching towards her knife strapped to her leg. It was their leader. He held his right hand in his left. No—not his hand, his forearm, as everything north of his wrist was gone— cut off as surely as mutton in the hands of the sharpest cleaver. The cut was so clean and happened so swiftly that Leta saw the moment the blood began to spurt up into the air and drip down the side of his forearm.

The motto of the Perseverant sprung unbidden into her mind, like a child winding a Jack-in-the-Box: Up above as down below, forever and ever.

“Now might be an opportune time to leave, Leta.”

“What did you do to that man?” Her voice was flat in her ears and made far away by the intervening screaming.

“I warned him, that’s what I did. Now let’s go. The wailing will draw the outer guards. I thought he’d have a bit more fortitude in him, but alas…”

Pea and Genu were trying to help their leader, who had finally begun demanding a tourniquet. And as Leta and Clark passed through and into Alia’s tower, they moved only to cower away from them.

* * *

Leta squinted against the bright sunlight as they raced towards the end of the hall. Most hallways of the Roc were dim, far from the outer walls and windows, hungry for light. They were allowed candles and flames—no one on the outside cared if someone burned themselves or even the Roc itself. But no one bothered to light the halls, jealously guarding any candlelight to brighten the small hours of their quarters. Light didn’t come cheap. But racing towards the sunup side of the temple, for that’s what it looked like to Leta, for maybe the first time: a temple bathed in light from a peaked arched window, somehow neither cracked nor boarded. The haze of ever-present ash floating between her and the outside seemed to glitter in the morning sun. When the light hit the ash, she was suddenly overcome by a deep sadness for Old Petey and the empty place in his soul that he begged Leta to fill. For she knew two things: she would never see Old Petey again, and she had been right. Something was changing.

By the time they reached the end of the hallway, Leta was nearly blind with the light. It was a relief to be pulled around the turn of the hallway. Only, she had lost track of where they were going. Had she the anatomy for it, she’d have kicked herself for being dazzled and losing sight.

“Sweet Asha,” said Clark, “I think there’s another group in this tower. I can sense them behind us.”

Leta could think of more colorful curses for this situation and tried to restrain herself, but her impatience and fear got the best of her. “Wadu’s asshole, Clark, what is the plan?” She let him lead her a bit farther until she realized where they were. “We’re at a dead end, you dolt.” In her panic, she had allowed herself to be brought to a blind end. Once, of course, it had been a fire escape. But the stairs that ran down the outside of the Roc and to safety had all been bricked over—each one. Leta knew; she’d checked them all long ago. She kicked Clark hard in the shins and prepared to run back down the hallway.

Clark grunted deep and low at the kick and pursed his lips like he was keeping in a curse. He wouldn’t befoul the names of his precious Cattoleiri in anger. But Leta would.

“Shitting Shawyn, Clark.” Leta fought the urge to kick him again; it would only waste more time. She would have to make a mad dash—again, Clark grabbed her by the cuff. The action threw an oil-doused log on her flames.

Her nostrils flared, and she reached with her left hand for her knife. If he wanted a fight, she’d give it to him. Leta would have guessed she couldn’t get any angrier until he grasped her other wrist. He leaned in to speak in her face; she could smell his breath. He had eaten the breakfast she’d given him after all. It would be rude to spit in his face, but she wasn’t feeling particularly ladylike.

“Look.” The word was barely louder than a whisper, but the intensity stopped Leta’s anger…a little.

She followed his gaze towards the left, and she nearly fell over with the surprise of it. Where before there had been nothing but a stone wall, now there was a perfectly round hole leading into the last room of the hallway. Clarkson mostly stifled a smug smile. “Get in.”

Leta reached out a hand and watched it pass straight through where there had been a solid stone wall just a moment before. Clarkson gave her a self-satisfied smile and gestured her inside. She recoiled, “After you, I think.”

“Only room for one, unfortunately. I’ll have to see myself out another way, Princess Leta. But you best hurry. I don’t want to have to leave the hole agape. Might give you away.”

“I don’t understand. They’ll be here soon. They’ll find me.”

“I hope so,” he said. “I left a red tag on the door.”

Again, Leta turned towards the room, her head whipping over to confirm what she had already known—had already smelled. “No,” she said. It was almost a plea. Horror crept up the base of her spine. Then, a whisper, “No.”

“Unless you’ve a better idea.”

A sound from down the hall trapped her between two senses: the clamor of pounding flesh on wood and the reek of flesh under cloth. Against her human instincts, she crawled through the hole and into the room. The smell was even worse on this side. She turned around, ready to tell Clark she’d changed her mind; she couldn’t do this, and no one could do it. But of course, there was only a stone wall.