8 Years Later...
They shall be born with a scar already on their skin, and it shall mark them as the Endowed, chosen by the Powers.
-Excerpt from The Book of Eternity
Keep your sister safe, son.
The oath Perelor had sworn that day was all he could think of as he twisted the lasertip in his hands, unsure how best to grip the weapon. It was spear-like, a long staff with a blade at the top. Part of the blade had been cut open to make room for a blaster; this weapon was designed for common infantry, and was a mix between a ranged weapon and a melee weapon. The trigger for the gun was in the middle of the staff, where Perelor’s hand rested now. He had to be extra careful not to hit it by accident.
He’d hoped his skill with the sword would translate more easily to this, but it hadn’t. His former style of fighting had involved a lot of parrying, and lasertips were downright terrible at that. The weapon was far better at stabbing than slashing, too — the exact opposite of a sword. The differences were irritating him. He needed to be good at this. His ability to protect his sister, and keep his word, depended on his ability to fight.
But, this was his weapon now. Larsh had refused to give him a sword, and frankly, he wasn’t sure if he deserved one anymore. So he worked with what he had.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t been given a teacher, either, not until recently. Few of the slaves here in the Talar camps were even allowed a weapon, and fewer still were willing to practice. So far, Crelang Deonto was the only one he’d found who would spar with him for longer than a few minutes. A tall, pasty man with long black hair, Crelang stood before him now. He was a few years Perelor’s senior, and more muscular, too — he was a former Herreon soldier, and he’d stayed fit during his years of captivity. There was something off about him today, and Perelor couldn’t figure out what. Right now, though, they stood in a gravel pit set at the bottom of a bumpy slope. It wasn’t designed for sparring, it was just a spot where nothing had yet been built, but it was what they had.
“You’re going to want to adjust your stance,” Crelang said. “Remember, you’re not supposed to focus on defense here. Offense is your best defense with a lasertip.” He frowned. “And you’re going to want to stop twisting that handle. It’s a waste of energy.”
“Right.” Perelor forced himself to stop. It was difficult, it was more of an anxious tick than a conscious movement. He fell into a more offensive stance, feet forward, the lasertip’s blade pointed directly at Crelang’s chest. “Like that?”
“Close.” Crelang stepped forward, prodding Perelor’s limbs to adjust his position just slightly. “There. Like that.” Suddenly, he swept his weapon forward, smacking Perelor’s legs and forcing him off balance. Perelor stumbled for a moment but then fell back into the same stance. Crelang squinted, staring him down with a critical eye, then smiled.
“You got it first try. Good. You’re learning quickly.”
“I have an excellent teacher,” Perelor said.
Crelang’s grin widened. “You’re searing right you do.” He fell into stance himself, then began circling Perelor. “Is your blade dulled?”
Perelor nodded, briefly raising his lasertip to show the rubber coating the blade. They’d had to steal that rubber. Crelang had seemed a little too eager when they’d done that.
“Good. We begin.”
He lunged forward. Perelor parried. The metal staves clanged as they struck one another.
Most people thought melee fights lasted a long time. If both fighters were skilled, they sometimes did. But, more often, they were over in an instant. The less experienced warrior made a single mistake, and their more experienced counterpart took advantage of it, ending the duel immediately.
That was exactly what happened here. Perelor was too slow on a riposte, and Crelang batted his weapon aside, then shoved the rubber-covered tip of his own weapon into Perelor’s chest. Perelor stumbled back, gasping. Crelang kicked him, knocking Perelor down. Perelor raised his hand in surrender.
“The kick wasn’t necessary,” he wheezed. “In an actual fight, I would’ve been dead from your first blow.”
“In an actual fight, you’d try to kill me, even after I stabbed you. You wouldn’t do a very good job, but I’d still need to get you out of the way.” He smirked. “Plus, in an actual fight, you’ll be dealing with pain. You need to get used to that.”
Perelor snorted. “I know how to deal with pain.”
“Maybe. Most soldiers seem to think they can, but I’ve found few truly do. You need to have been through Torment itself to stay calm when you’ve been stabbed.” His eyes grew distant for a moment.
You’d be surprised what I’ve been through, Perelor thought bitterly. But he said nothing. Crelang was just doing his best to train him. If that meant a kick to the stomach, Perelor would deal with it. He was about to be assigned to the slave squadrons, and he had to survive. Eliel depended on it.
Crelang stepped back, preparing for another bout. Perelor stood, catching his breath. Crelang raised an eyebrow.
“Tired? Really?”
Perelor sighed. “We’ve been going for three hours. Yes, I’m tired.”
Crelang smiled. “I’m just teasing. For now. You’ll need to improve your stamina.”
“Of course I will.” Perelor rolled his eyes.
“You’ll need to work on your sass, too,” Crelang said slyly. “If you get good enough at it, you can kill the enemy with sheer sarcasm.” His face grew grim. “Again.”
His muscles protested the movement, but Perelor fell into stance, keeping a careful eye on Crelang. Though he insisted otherwise, Crelang was incredible with his lasertip. And he knew how to teach the art, too. Though he hadn’t given many details about his past, Perelor suspected he’d been a high-ranking military man before he’d ended up here. He’d won every duel he’d fought with ease, and had survived several raids with the Talar slave squadrons himself.
Perelor would figure out how to beat Crelang, though. He had to be at least as competent with this weapon as he had been with the sword.
For all the good it did you that day, a part of him whispered. The voice was loud, and his guard fell for a moment. Crelang stepped forward, stabbing at Perelor’s stomach. Perelor batted the blow away, but awkwardly, leaving him open. He winced, waiting for Crelang to strike the finishing blow. Another bout lost…
Alarm bells rang.
Immediately, both Crelang and Perelor stepped away from each other, exchanging worried glances. The alarm didn’t always mean the Artensians were coming, but when it did…
Perelor shivered, looking to the sky. Nothing. He let himself relax a little, then even more when a messenger came running by. “Whipping at the North Square!”
Beside Perelor, Crelang, too, let his shoulders slump. Slowly a smile crossed his face.
“They won’t take attendance, you know.”
Perelor nodded. They wouldn’t; there were too many slaves to do that. They’d send guards patrolling through camp, but those weren’t hard to avoid. Times like these were usually when Perelor and Crelang would practice memory burning together. It was even rarer — and even more important — than sparring time; Crelang was the only other competent memory burner Perelor had ever encountered. At least, the only one who would admit to their powers.
“I know.” He hesitated. “Let me get Eliel first.”
Crelang frowned. “Perelor, as much as I love your sister… she’s not exactly good at the whole burning thing. Besides, what if she has an episode?”
That’s exactly why I have to be near her, Perelor thought. Beside him, Crelang nodded in understanding. Perelor chided himself. He wasn’t Infused with any Ever. Because of that, other memory burners, including Crelang, could read his thoughts. That wasn’t a problem right now, but if Larsh or one of the other memory burners she employed came near, they’d be exposed.
“I see,” Crelang said. “Well, get her quickly. They like making a show of it, but they won’t take too long. Got to keep us working.” He said the last part bitterly.
“I’ll be quick,” Perelor said. He Reached, burning nearby thoughts to infuse himself with Ever, not much of it, but enough to keep his mind shielded. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” Crelang said. “At least, not by your definition of stupid.” He grinned again. He did that a lot. Perelor wasn’t sure how he managed it, in a place like this.
Knowing him, though, that promise was the best Perelor was going to get. Perelor jogged away, off of the gravel and into the dirt-covered streets of the slave camp.
The camp wasn’t exactly what Perelor had envisioned when he’d first heard of the Talar slave system, back on Ethea. It was hygienic; each Elekhai had enough space to avoid the spread of infection, and there was running water and comfortable enough cots in each of the cement huts. There were restrooms and baths, too, though slaves didn’t wash quite as regularly as Perelor had when he was free.
No, the conditions weren’t awful. What was awful was the feeling of the place. Everything was perfectly utilitarian. The clothes were all the same, purple and gray uniforms, with occasional variations in the collars and embroideries depending on the slave’s profession. Decorations were not allowed. Each cement hut had the same dimensions, same layout, regardless of who lived there. Even the way the slaves groomed themselves was regulated. The overall message was clear: you are not a person, you are an object. A tool. Outlive your usefulness, and we will throw you away.
It was wrong. Horrifyingly wrong. The downcast faces of those Perelor passed tugged at his heartstrings. Tugged at his honor. A part of him wanted to light up with Ever right now, and burn as many of the guards as he could to cinders.
But, of course, that would accomplish nothing. Memory burners were powerful, but they weren’t gods. He’d just get himself killed. There was nothing he could do.
That was what he hated most.
Weaving his way through the crowd, which was making its way toward the North Square, Perelor arrived at his cement hut in just a few minutes. Inside, there were four cots – one for Perelor, one for Eliel, and two for the other slaves that had been assigned to this building. Perelor knew little about them, he’d never been able to get them talking. Currently, one was lying on his cot, coughing up a storm. The man was getting old. Perelor worried the guards would dispose of him soon; in their eyes, he was just a waste of food. When they tried that, Perelor’s honor would demand he interfere.
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He didn’t have time to fret about that now, though. Because Eliel wasn’t here.
Panic rose in Perelor’s chest, though he quickly forced it down. She was probably just at the North Square, watching with everyone else. It would be difficult to find her, but with his memory sense, it wouldn’t be impossible.
He dashed back into the crowd, which grew thicker as he made his way toward the Square. He had to squeeze and shove to get near the front. He froze when someone he pushed fell over, but another slave quickly helped them back up, and he forced himself to continue onward.
It was loud here, loud enough Perelor doubted Eliel could hear him, but he shouted her name anyway. As he did, he focused on the thoughts of those around him. It wasn’t easy, with so many active minds nearby, but he could pick out a few voices that sounded almost like her. A young girl, near the back of the crowd, clutching a doll… no, that wasn’t it. A woman, who stared down at her feet, lifted her wrinkling hands… no, Eliel wasn’t that old.
He focused on the last potential voice, then froze. That was Eliel. He knew the pulse of her thoughts as distinctively as he knew her face. And she was being held by a Talar guard, blood dripping down her cheeks, blood that mixed with tears and sweat.
Perelor screamed. The sound drew curious eyes, but he did not care, and he couldn’t have contained it if he tried. Growling, he pushed his way through the crowd, shoving, elbowing, doing everything he could to make his way to Eliel. Eventually, people parted for him, and he burst out of the crowd, finding himself in the center of the North Square.
It wasn’t a beautiful place, not at all like Squares in the cities of Ethea – it was just a large cement pad where slaves would gather to witness an event, usually a punishment. In the center, a small stone cube rose above the rest of the structure, just large enough for a dozen or so men to stand on it.
Right now, that cube was surrounded by Talar soldiers. On top of it, a man in gleaming insect-like armor held a long, segmented metal whip. It crackled and popped, electricity flowing freely through its center. Beside that man, two more Talar soldiers held a prisoner.
Eliel.
As he’d seen with his memory sense, she was already caked in blood. A long gash ran across her forehead, not deep enough to strike bone, but deep enough that she was growing pale. Her eyes turned to Perelor as he exited the crowd. They were wide. She wasn’t even shaking; she’d frozen up, as she often did in situations like this.
Keep your sister safe, son.
Perelor snarled, stepping toward the guards surrounding the platform. They leveled their blasters at him. Perelor hesitated.
“No closer!” one of them yelled. “Back away, or we shoot.”
For a moment, Perelor stood still, debating if he should advance anyway. Then one of the soldiers fired a warning shot into the ground. The shriek forced Perelor to his senses, and he stumbled back, raising his hands in surrender – for now.
They won’t hurt her. They can’t. I won’t let them.
His eyes drifted toward the whip, and suddenly, he wasn’t so sure. Dread crept up his spine. He wouldn’t lose her. He couldn’t.
She was all he had left.
Someone handed the whip master a vocoder, which he placed near his mouth. He spoke, and his voice echoed across the entire Square.
“Those of you who worked in the mines know well why we are gathered here today.”
There had been gossip before, but now the slaves fell silent. One of them, near Perelor, looked down at his feet. He was wearing a miner’s uniform.
Maybe he knows what happened.
The whipmaster gestured toward Eliel. “This Elek thought it wise to try and stall our war effort. She collapsed a vein of ethium, on purpose. Two men died, both of them Elekhai themselves, though she did not seem to care.”
This drew a couple of shouts of outrage from the crowd. One of them Perelor could distinctly make out: hang her.
No! I won’t let you. He almost stepped forward again, but then his eyes fixed on the guards again. Two of them still had their blasters aimed at his chest. If he tried anything – even Reaching for Ever – he’d be shot.
“I just wanted to help,” Eliel mumbled. “I didn’t think I would end up…”
“She has been sentenced to two dozen lashings,” the whipmaster continued, ignoring her. “To be administered immediately.”
The guards holding Eliel suddenly threw her to the ground, then forced her back onto her knees. She yelped, eyes staring pleadingly at Perelor. The whipmaster stepped behind her, raising his weapon.
“One.”
He swung downward. The whip sizzled as it struck Eliel’s flesh, electricity burning her cracked skin. She shrieked. Blood flowed freely down her back. Perelor knew instantly from that one blow that two dozen of these lashings would kill her.
The whipmaster cocked his whip back again. “Two.”
“No!” Perelor yelled. “Stop! Stop!” He was surprised at the forcefulness of his voice. He stepped forward, hands in the air, an idea forming in his mind. The guards did not shoot, though their hands tightened on their blasters. “Stop.”
The whipmaster’s head immediately turned to Perelor. He snorted.
“You really think it wise to interrupt me, boy? I will kill you, too.”
Perelor didn’t flinch. Instead, he looked up, meeting the whipmaster’s helm-covered gaze. “I take the whippings,” he said. “All two dozen lashings. I take all of them.”
The whipmaster was silent for a long moment. Then he let out a static-filled chuckle. “You invoke the tradition of atonement?”
“I do,” Perelor said. It was a Talar thing, and he knew little of it, but he’d seen people use it a few times before. In theory, you could take someone else’s punishment for them.
In theory. Perelor had learned from experience that, though tradition ran strong here, Talar cruelty was not something to be underestimated.
The whipmaster motioned to the guards standing beside Eliel. He took off his vocoder, and they stepped away, talking for a moment. Perelor remained standing in the center of the square, hands above his head, the other Talar soldiers still pointing their blasters at his chest. His heart pounded. Would they just kill him, and then whip Eliel anyway? Had he just doomed them both?
It took several minutes, but finally, the conversation ended, and the whipmaster stuck his vocoder back on.
“In an intriguing turn of fate,” the whipmaster said, “this young Elek has invoked the right of atonement. He shall intercede between death and the girl, as the Endowed shall intercede between Oblivion and mankind. We will lash him until he either dies, or takes her punishment in full.” The whipmaster’s head turned down to Perelor. “Should he die, however, the girl will receive the remaining lashes. Justice does not see the hand that pays it, but it will be paid.” He paused. “Unless you wish to back down?”
Perelor’s stomach sank. He’d seen beatings like this before. Usually, the victim died at around ten strokes. He might be able to survive a little longer than that, but even if he survived fifteen, that still meant another eight for Eliel. That still might be enough to kill her – she wasn’t exactly healthy, these days, with the lack of treatment for her Soulcurse.
But then, it was her only chance. Their only chance. He raised his voice.
“I accept.”
The whipmaster nodded. “So be it.” He waved his hand, and the guards who had pointed blasters at Perelor strode toward him. One slammed the butt of his gun into Perelor’s stomach, and he doubled over. The soldiers each grabbed one of his arms, dragging him to the cement platform, then lifting him atop it. In the corner of his vision, he could see another set of guards dragging Eliel away. She looked a little less pale now, though her eyes were glazed over with shock.
I’m sorry, he thought. I should have stopped this earlier. He met her eyes. This might be the last time he saw her, he realized. Twenty-four lashings was a death sentence, and he’d just taken it.
Strange, how little he cared about his death, even in the face of it.
The Talar wasted no time. The guards kicked Perelor to his knees, then stepped back. Without hesitation, the whip master snapped his arm downward, and the electric, metal chain struck Perelor’s back.
The blow came with such force, he nearly fell on his face. He felt his flesh burn and smoke, and blood dripped down his spine. He gasped as the pain hit him, an explosion of agony lashing across his skin.
“Two!” the whipmaster yelled.
The whip came down again. Again flesh burned. The pain intensified.
“Three!”
The whip came down again. And again, and again, and again. Pain became a blur. Black spots danced across Perelor’s eyes. The voice of the whipmaster became distant. He didn’t know how far he’d made it anymore. Six? Ten? His clothes were wet with sticky redness. His thoughts felt disconnected, as if this were happening to someone else. Was this how it really felt to die? Just an increasing numbness, until finally you descended into Torment?
For a moment, fear gripped him, and he debated rising, and letting Eliel take this burden. Then he remembered his father’s charred eye sockets, and he let out a growl. Those thoughts were traitorous. Dishonorable. He steeled himself.
But he was not made of steel. And the whip kept coming down. Hit after hit, cut after cut, he felt himself fading. He could have sworn he saw fiery red lines of light, writhing around him, spirits that signaled what was to come.
Then the whip stopped.
“Twenty-four.” The whipmaster’s voice was not so excited anymore. Now he sounded as shocked as Perelor felt.
Perelor closed his eyes, bracing himself for another strike. He was delusional, wasn’t he? He had to be. No one survived two dozen lashings.
Nothing hit him, though. Instead, a guard rolled him over. Perelor’s body ached as it moved, though that added very little pain compared to the agony that spread across his back. Another soldier hoisted him to his feet. He trembled on weak legs, then fell. The guard yanked him back up, and this time, he kept his footing, though his vision still swam. He could hear people talking. They sounded so distant, though he knew they weren’t. One set of voices was the whipmaster, talking with Traegus Yral, the local noble. When had he arrived? The other, though, was his sister. She was crying.
“No, no, no, no. I’m sorry, Perelor. I’m so, so sorry. This is all my fault…”
Briefly, he saw someone moving toward him, though a flash of purple indicated a guard pushing that someone back. Perelor stumbled forward, barely catching himself. He felt so weak. He almost reflexively pulled in Ever; at least then his mind would still function.
Finally, a hand shoved Perelor forward, hard. He flew off the whipping platform, crashing to the cement below. The skin on his face tore as he hit, opening up gashes in his cheeks, though he hardly cared.
“The boy has taken the girl’s punishment,” a voice declared. Shal Yral’s voice, rather than the whipmaster’s. “His fate will be determined by the Endowed now. The girl is free.” The way he said that last sentence implied something different: she is free — for now.
Groaning, Perelor rolled onto his left side, the place that hurt the least to lean on. Vision gradually clearing, he watched as the crowd dispersed, moving silently back to their daily tasks. In the background, he heard his sister sobbing, protesting as guards held her back. Finally, he heard Traegus interfere, letting her pass.
“Perelor! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I never wanted this.” She kept repeating that as she rushed toward him, falling to her knees. Tears streamed down her face, tears that were mixing with sweat and blood. She’d lost plenty of it. She needed medical attention.
So do you, a piece of him whispered. Lay down. Wait for Crelang.
But his father’s charred eye sockets disagreed. It took all his strength to stand, but he stood, extending out his beaten hands to steady himself.
“We need… to get you…” His voice was a rasp. He collapsed.
Eliel caught him, then swung his arm over her shoulder. Limbs exhausted, mind numb, Perelor had no choice but to let her walk him back through the camp, then lay him down on the cot.
“I’m going to get Crelang,” she said. “Oh, I’m sorry, Perelor. I just wanted to save the trapped miners, I never thought it would collapse.” She shook her head. “Focus, Eliel. Hang on, I’ll get Crelang.” She left.
Perelor cocked back his head, staring at the gray cement ceiling. It was strange, his mind was so foggy, yet so clear all the same. He understood little, yet he understood what was important.
Keep your sister safe, son.
“Okron,” he whispered. He rarely addressed the Goddess anymore, but he did today. “Please don’t let me lose her. She’s all I have left. Please don’t let me lose her. She’s all I have left. Please don’t let me…”
He repeated that prayer, over and over, nearly delusional from blood loss, until finally, his body gave in to unconsciousness.
Just a year later, that prayer would go unanswered.