ARC 1: PAVED IN GOLD
Remus recalled well the first time the tax collectors arrived — the first time reality grabbed him by the throat, throttled him with brutal indifference, and struck him with a label he could never hope of being cleansed of.
He was only . . . what, seven at the time? Perhaps a little older, if memory served correct. His brother, Damion, had been sat opposite to him, the two of them positioned to either side of a large oak working board, just one of the many replicating desks that made up a large percentage of their Carpentry Sect’s interior. They were similar in appearance, with ginger hair so dark in shade it could pass for brown from a distance, and running mouths that often landed the pair in more trouble than they could handle.
“Honestly, you're holding a saw wrong! A saw!” A ten year old Daimon could often be heard complaining, as Remus yet again failed to pick up on their family’s trade.
“I am not.”
“Really? Are you certain about that?”
Remus had nodded, acutely unaware of the river of blood streaming from his palm.
Damion snickered. “Carry on, then.”
Even now, Remus cringed at his younger self’s ignorance, but more so, he pitied his mother, who was tasked with the great misfortune of walking into her son spewing out half of his arteries’ contents.
“Damion, you really have to stop teasing your brother so much. You know how easily he hurts himself.” Briella would reason with Damion, who didn’t seem to take the words to heart.
The sensation of a bandage against his skin was a familiar one to Remus even as a bright-eyed child. Him and tools, regardless of his sect’s background and speciality, did not mix. Remus could pick up a ruler and be more likely to somehow misinterpret its purpose than to apply anything remotely resembling the gods’ greatest gift to humanity: common sense. This idiocy, as a matter of fact, was precisely what was preoccupying the boy when one of Damosh’s goons came calling. Right as he was attempting to slice through a plank of freshly supplied wood with a measuring stick’s side, a knock came calling from the manor’s front doors.
Remus’ father, Aiden — a respectful, but otherwise withdrawn man — came to the call, passing through the room with a passive, ‘I’ll get it,’ and strolling by nonchalantly. If it were not for the innocence youth provides, Remus might have noticed the intensity of his father’s casual air; might have caught his brother glancing up warily, or his mother’s lips pursing. However, his interest was still piqued from the rough knocking at the door, but because of reasons far detached from concern.
Instead, Remus pondered if the clan’s leader, a Warlord-Ranked who doubled as his great grandfather, had finally returned from constructing barricades at the frontlines. The position defended off the infinite ranks of the malevolent Unbounded, preventing the fiends from flooding into the main territory of the Mortal Realms. Of course, the fact it undeniably supplied their humble sect a handsome spike in profits was not a benefit to be ignored. Its only downside being how often Remus’ grandfather, Andreas, was forced away from the capital of First Rite on business errands.
The mere prospect of him returning was a joyful one, but reality, as always, proved much more nefarious.
Creeping silently on their tiptoes, Remus and Damion sneaked up to the building’s entrance, garnering amused smirks from many of the sect’s passing members, who graciously decided to turn a blind eye to the brothers’ antics.
A wall separated the eavesdropping boys and the manor’s main hall, a streaking passage of ornate wood that stretched from one side of the building to the other, as if determined not to alter direction. Their current room was situated directly at this corridor’s end, where the entrance sat. They needed only to lean over the door leading into the passage with as much discretion as they could muster, and a clear view of the elusive affairs of the Carpentry Sect would be theirs to lay witness to. And of course, two infamously mischievous children were sure to be both secretive, and gracious with their peeking.
“Do you see anything?” Remus asked, with Damion’s back blocking his view.
“Father’s talking with someone from the Wealth Sect.”
“Wealth Sect?”
“Yes, now shut up would you?”
“But I can’t see anything!”
A hand appeared over Remus’ mouth, and before he could complain — the inclination to chomp on his brother’s palm extraordinarily tempting — his attention turned to the two men conversing on his doorstep. They were obviously mid-discussion.
“ . . . for the late payment. It won’t become a regular occurrence, I can assure yo-”
“Can you now?” A harsh voice cut him off, regal and pestering. “Times are becoming rough Aiden, y’know, with the War effort requiring more resources than ever, a lot of clans are struggling. I can't be as lenient as I used to be.”
“I can recognise that; we’re feeling the repercussions too, so I understand where you’re coming from. But your demands, they’re just not sustainable. We’re paying Damosh almost double of the Inklings we were before.”
“ . . . And so are the rest of the fifty or so sects based in First Rite. Just because you happen to be in the top twenty amongst us, doesn’t relieve your kin of the same requirements of everyone in the city.”
Something in his father’s voice changed. It was subtle, incredibly so, to the point Remus could only put a name to the switch in demeanour years later, during agonising sessions where he would replay the day’s events in his mind over, and over, and over again. It was desperation.
“Please. Just one more Passing, you’ll be paid in full then.”
In deliberate melodrama, the tax collector inhaled deeply. “The best I can offer is half paid now, Sir, and for the next Passing, I’ll receive the usual amount plus the rest of this Passing’s. I could get a rough chiding from the boss for this one, Aiden, so I hope you’re grateful. You can always trust Damosh to be stingy with his money.”
“Yes Sir. Of course Sir.”
The exchange ceased, replaced by a resounding clinking.
In his raptness to the conversation, Damion had lowered his hand, leaving Remus free to speak his mind. “Why’s father speaking like that? Are they handing over money?”
Damion’s hand returned with such force that Remus was practically smacked. “Shush!”
No noise escaped the front door, and the brothers may as well have had their flesh displaced by marble, with how rigidly they remained frozen in place. Seconds passed, and their position did not change, staring unblinkingly at one another; not daring to do as much as breathe.
“I think you should keep better watch of your sect’s children, Aiden.” A voice finally spoke up.
“Yes Sir . . . apologies Sir, my mistake. Please excuse the boys, it's my fault for not teaching them better.”
The tax collector released a laugh with no humour behind it, before his voice dropped to a deadpan. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the two before. They are your boys, are they not? Why not introduce me?”
Their father called for them, and the two trudged into view solemnly, heads down and their hands fidgeting gawkily.
“Just the spitting image of their father,” the tax collector mused, hunching down to his knees and examining the two.
Now that they were only inches apart, Remus could take a thorough observation of the Wealth clansman before him. The man was bald, his wrinkles and the lines engraved into his forehead indicating age. Unnaturally wide eyes stared into him, and the man didn’t seem to care that the way he was inspecting the two — as if examining their very souls for every fault or flaw — was causing them both great discomfort. Just barely in his peripheral vision, Remus could also spot his father, fitted with a buzz cut and a grave look, eying the scene stiffly, and with arms crossed.
“Grey irises,” the face before him noted. “Not of your brown shade, Aiden. Their mother’s?”
Aiden simply grunted in confirmation.
“Two promising Enkindled are sure to help the sect bolster their profits! Just put your boys to work, and I’m sure you’ll earn enough to keep Damosh happy and content. See, problem solved.”
“Enkindled?” The fated line had escaped Remus’, unaware, self-sabotaging lips.
Years later, Remus would face much turmoil fighting off the urge to collide his head against the nearest wall, whenever this accursed memory resurfaced in his thoughts. Just three syllables, and he’d set himself up for disaster.
The tax collector glanced at his younger self, as if Remus’ brains had just fallen out of his cranium to stain the ground below. There was a pause, and his eyes flickered back to the man behind the two. “Gods above Aiden, haven’t you taught the boy anything?”
His father took a hasty step forward, forgoing his subservient air to free his son from the mess he’d just created for himself.
“Of course, I think what he meant to say was-”
“Oh! You mean the Divine Ranks?” Remus interrupted blindly. “‘I don’t know what I am, maybe-”
“You don’t have a Rank yet, stupid.” Damion interjected.
If he was really honest with himself, Remus had held a grudge against his brother for that little stunt for a countless time thereafter. Fortunately, in later years, he’d had enough maturity to realise that it was he himself that had kickstarted this mess, and, therefore, it was only right that he paid the consequences. No matter how much it chafed against him.
“No Rank . . .?” The tax-collector repeated, evidently perplexed. “Not even the first Rank? Has his blood not been saturated? Has he not become Engorged?”
Aiden stepped forth yet again, face paling as he tried frantically to backpedal away from the topic.
“Apologies, there seems to be a misunderstanding. Our Remus, he’s-”
“Can your sect not afford another measly Droplet?” The tax-man piped in, his voice deeply sorrowful — at least, on the surface — yet grating. “My sympathies Aiden, I did not register the extent of your financial struggles.”
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“It's not that, we’re not suffering that greatly yet, thank the gods. It's just that, well . . . we tend not to speak about it openly, but you see — ah, how do I put this?”
“Come on, Aiden, spit it out, we don’t have all day here.”
Remus’ head glanced to and fro, from his father’s reddening face, to the tax collector’s icy stare. He didn’t need exceptional skills in deduction to note that something was wrong. That something terrible was occurring before his eyes.
Scratching the back of his head, Aiden could stall no longer. “He . . . doesn’t require a Droplet. We don’t believe it would do him much good, with his status, and whilst we could afford more, Ichor is expensive. We have to save as many Inklings as we can nowadays.”
The bald man considered this, and Aiden desperately hoped the inquiries would stop there. Of course, cruelty is the way of the universe, and they did not.
“Status, you don’t mean . . .” Realisation dawned on the man’s face, and his lips visibly trembled, teetering on curving into a fierce smile only barely restrained. “His Mark, it's not of the Carpentry god is it; not of Arcus?”
The overwhelming silence was answer enough.
“Then who? What god?”
Aiden’s controlled mien began to slip. “I think you’ve questioned us enough, Edmar. I recommend that you leave. You have many other clans to visit this early into the day, have you not?”
Edmar, as Remus had inferred to be the tax collector’s name, didn’t try to conceal his mirth any longer. His visage was sly, arrogantly amused at the tragic fates of others.
“Remus is Death-Marked, hmm?” His beam only grew in intensity. “What god? What deceased deity was he stained with?”
“I told you to leave, Edmar.” Aiden huffed, voice verging on a yell. “Do not make me shout in the streets of these slums, do not overstep more than you already have.”
Edmar did not immediately step back, nor did he appear to take the man’s tone seriously. Yet nevertheless, after a brief standoff, the tax collector wandered off, muttered what was sure to have been a few incredibly polite words under his breath, and went on his way.
Remus’ last memory of that morning was of his father walking the two back in, innumerable pairs of eyes staring hard into their passing backs. The judgemental stares of watchful clansmen, his first taste of the detestement soon to come.
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“What’s a Death-Mark, mother?” Remus would ask, later that day, as Briella tucked him into bed.
Every family within the Carpentry Sect shared a private chamber each, which may sound claustrophobic to those born into wealth, but to the sects established inside the Labour District — a kindly name put to the slums of First Rite — the servants of the Carpentry god lived in the highest luxury. The room was fairly large, fit for the two adults and children that resided within it, with blank wooden walls occasionally cut into by a window or two. At each corner, a bed sat, and a general level of warmth was provided by a hearth chiselled into a rectangular column at the chamber’s centre, this stretching from ceiling to floor.
Every night, Aiden and Briella would put Remus and Daimon to bed, before drifting into sleep themselves. But this evening in particular, Remus had asked the question that had been playing on his psyche since his father’s encounter with Edmar, putting any chances of either of them catching a decent rest in jeopardy.
“Where did you hear that term?” His mother asked with a small frown, pulling up the quilt over Remus’ lower body to cover him fully.
“The taxman came. He asked dad what Rank me and Damion were, and then he mentioned it. Said it was a stain, or a curse, or . . . something.” Remus answered innocently, the vast majority of his attention directed on fiddling with a carved doll in his hands.
Briella turned, looking at her husband aghast. “Aiden! What were you thinking? You know how quickly a rumour can spread when the Wealth Sect is involved.”
A sigh escaped the man’s throat, ash still lingering on his skin from the day’s intensive workload. “I was pressured into talking, Briella. The boys weren’t much help either, slipping out information every second sentence.”
“They’re only children, you can’t really blame them there,” she defended, “I wasn’t going to tell Remus until he was a little older, I thought it might be a bit much for someone so young.”
“He’s old enough,” Aiden retorted. “But what will people think? I dread to think that it could have a sour impact on Remus’ reputation. Yet people these days tend to be more judgmental than not.”
Befuddled by what he was hearing, Remus inevitably spoke up. “What are you talking about? And you didn’t answer my question.”
From his bed, Damion watched intently, soaking the scene in with as much interest as his brother.
“Well, you see Remus . . .” His mother began sheepishly, playing with a strand of her brown hair. “When you’re born, a god bestows you with a Mark that represents them, like a birthmark.”
“Like the one on your arm?”
Nodding, she presented the limb to him. Remus’ eyes widened as he examined the artwork of a colossal wall, circling around a moon as a streak of orangery ambers rained down upon it. Beyond this great onslaught of flames, a figure hovered, appearing to be made of pale white fire himself.
“It's a Mark of the Carpentry god, Arcus, constructing a fortress to protect himself from an attack of Ashbel’s doing, the Flame deity.”
“Why are they fighting?”
Briella chuckled softly. “This was during the War, before all the gods signed a pact to stop fighting each other themselves, as it was causing too much destruction. Obliterating entire worlds in their wake. That’s why we have Marks, to accept their power and patronage, and fight for them.”
“I have a Mark too, on my shoulder,” Remus recalled. “But it's not like yours. It has no colour, and it's of a woman, I think.”
The uneasy smile on his mother’s face waned a little. “Marks remain colourless until you channel Ichor to them, the golden blood of the gods. But you need to consume a Droplet to do so, to saturate your blood into godly essence, and we haven’t purchased one for you, I’m sorry to say.”
“Why?”
His mother shifted uncomfortably, eyes shooting to Aiden for support.
“You see son,” his father walked over, his expression implying immense apprehension for this conversation, “do you notice how everyone in our sect has a Mark of Arcus?
“Yeah, but I don’t think Arcus is a woman . . .”
“Precisely. Your Mark isn’t of Arcus. It is of Amani, the deceased goddess of Peace. She died in the early stages of the War according to our library's records, her very nature as a pacifist preventing her from fighting back.”
Taking a moment to digest this, Remus said nought. It was a lot for a seven year old to fully comprehend, and he wouldn’t fully for several years to come.
From the opposite side of the chamber, Damion exclaimed, “So that's why you're so bad with equipment.”
“Damion!” Briella’s voice rose in vexation. “Be kind to your brother. He can’t help the hand he was handed in life.”
“But . . . How can I activate the power of someone that’s dead? How can a dead god offer power in the first place?” Remus muttered, ignoring the jab, his mind working overtime to process all the information being hurled his way.
“That's the tricky part,” Aiden started to answer. “When a deity dies, their power sort-of lingers. And, in unfortunate cases, Marks that can never be activated materialise on newborns, as a manifestation of that remaining power.”
“But why won’t any other gods take me?” He inquired desperately, grasping at non-existent straws. Remus was barely understanding what his parents were talking about in the first place, with all the terminology they were throwing around. “Another person would surely help them in some way, right?”
The image of his own mother holding back tears was a sight emblazed into his retinas from that day onwards. A fiery visage to permanently remind him of the burdens — of the curses — he must carry.
“It's . . . considered bad luck, or so I’ve heard,” Aiden continued, sitting by his wife to comfort her, despite the emotion bleeding into his own tremulous voice. “The proper term for it is a Death-Mark son. The deities up above find it distasteful to leave claim on someone with the touch of one of their lost kin, even if it's only in a weird, afterimage kind of way.”
Remus wasn’t graced with the mercy of sleep until several hours later that night. Benumbed at the time, he couldn’t quite recall his initial reaction at such earth-shattering news. But what he could remember was his brother’s silent support, who’d moved his own blanket and pillow to rest by him, holding his cold hand tight until the pains of the conscious world gave away.
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The memories of that shameful day flooded back to Remus years later, now a near fully-grown sixteen year old, though not much better off for it. He watched, as he’d made a habit of doing so every Passing, with bated breath, standing in the barren roads of the First Rite slums. Behind his back, the Carpentry Sect lay; a modest fortress of ornate, handcrafted walls and beams etched from the finest oak and mahogany the clan could get their hands on.
Gradually, in the distance, beneath the half-crumbled settlements of the Labour District, the silhouette of Edmar drew near. One spot of gold in an ocean of monotonous, weather-beaten grey. Remus held his ground firmly with arms crossed, fitted into a carpenter’s uniform that had never truly fit him.
He’d taken the role as taxpayer for a multitude of reasons. Of course, it was a dire job having to deal with anyone affiliated with Damosh in the first place, but for many within the Carpentry Sect, the frequent sight of Edmar’s unpleasant face was too much to bear. His father had always volunteered willingly to take the loathed position, seeing it as his responsibility, technically being second in command, and overseeing the sect when Andreas was away. Remus respected that sense of honour greatly, but with much persistence, had managed to sway the man into letting him take up the role. It wasn’t as if he could do much else to benefit the carpenters, with his lack of a usable Mark, lack of golden, divine blood, lack of anything even remotely . . .
The Death-Marked sighed. His mind had become riddled with dark thoughts again, overwhelmed with a terrible spite that could intoxicate the mind like nothing else. He had to stay focused.
Edmar wasn’t far off now, approaching with that smug, ever-punchable visage of his. Inwardly, Remus reflected on his motives. On his intimate causes for the admittedly rash action he was on the verge of taking — in the position of a man staring down the walls of a cliff from its peak, not a step away from diving into icy water with only his flailing arms as protection.
Sure, he had indeed pleaded for the position to ease some of the workload away from the rest of the sect. That was all true. But his primary motivator was to put into action exactly what he intended to do next.
And if it earned him a few bruises in the process, so be it.
“Death-Mar- I mean, Remus.”
“Edmar.” Remus muttered curtly, as the man came to a halt, standing rigidly with a venomous look in his eyes.
Over the years, Remus had become especially familiar with the tax-collector’s appearance. His waistcoat was of the deepest caramel, intersected occasionally with conflicting blotches of dark emerald; a plain jet tunic he adorned underneath, the crest of his clan sewn into said cloth, and weaved with strands of true gold that bedazzled the eye. It was a portrait of Damosh, artfully designed to highlight the hue of his glimmering skin, with a neatly slicked-back hairdo the shade of poisonous green.
And Remus would bleed it all red.
“I know you’re not much for a chat Remus, so let’s make this quick.” Edmar began, as Remus struggled to restrain himself. “Hand over the Passing’s due of Inklings.”
Gritting his teeth, his face scrunching in disgust, Remus’ hand made slowly for his pocket — the action appearing as though it was eliciting a great deal of pain. It paused right as he trespassed into its contents, and Edmar looked all-around affronted.
“You told me the tax would lower. It's been so long I can’t even recall the precise extent of your lies.” Remus’ voice was reduced to a low series of aggressive murmurs. “But I know that you did feed me and the rest of the Labour District falsehoods. Costs haven’t even stagnated, how do you expect people to keep up with demands?”
“Boss’ orders, not mine Remus.” Edmar dismissed him dryly, by now tired with this frequent ordeal. “Now, pass over the money, and you can go complain to the man yourself, if you fancy.”
“. . . and if I don’t?”
The tax collector said nothing further for a moment, and Remus was almost longing for an insult to be hurled his way. A threat to really cement his actions, or a flimsy excuse to attribute to his intentions. He wasn’t sure how to feel when he received both.
“Then you’d be breaking the law, Remus, and your entire sect will have to face the consequences of one foolish child’s tantrums. Are you instigating a confrontation here?”
“Why could you possibly be getting that impression? We stand on Divine Ground here in First Rite, if that little detail went over that thick head of yours, Edmar. Any Mark activated with intent to cause harm will result in a swift smiting from the gods, if you can even manage it.”
To Remus’ surprise, the man smirked. “That’s not all the Moratorium Pact details. If provoked, and if in lawful obedience, we have the freedom to defend ourselves to the best of our ability. And . . .”
“And?”
“The same applies if a duel is agreed to by both parties.” Edmar explained. “But I’m certain you at least have the brains not to request something as outlandish as that, Death-Marked or not.”
Remus’ blood ran cold.
All around, residents of the local neighbourhood were peeking out of their windows, staring through the subtlest creeks of their doors, and Remus had the faintest notion that someone from the Sight Sect had activated their Mark to oversee the stand-off from someplace far off. At least, he couldn’t think of anything else that hovering orb up ahead could be but an eye.
“Perhaps I am just stupid enough.”
Edmar rubbed the skin of his bald scalp, chuckling something unintelligible to himself. “Very well then. I, Edmar of the Wealth Sect, and honourable ambassador of the Godling Damosh, offer a duel to Remus of the Carpentry Sect, ambassador of none. Does the Death-Marked agree?”
A shaky breath left Remus’ lips.
“Yes.”