《Embracing Heresy》


 Prologue

    Prologue


    Josefa stood in a dark room in an even darker mood. She strained against the weight of her sister dangling from the ceiling above, feet kicking like a kid in too tall a chair. Her twin sister had, of course, forgotten a counterweight for this aerial operation, but Josefa was deemed heavy enough. Maria was a forgetful person, and Josefa could not believe that fact had slipped her own mind. Last time, they brought a few soiled sacks of potatoes for the job, fuzzy mold filling those cramped quarters in an instant with a sour stench. Josefa had complained about that job too, about the stench and about Maria¡¯s general cheeriness, and here she was complaining again. Perhaps all this was more an indictment of her own self-control and attitude than it was Maria¡¯s pension for detail. Perhaps Josefa would let that thought flit away and give her sister an earful anyway.


    They worked in a great, empty room adjacent to the Amphitheatre in this pyramid, a room with a catwalk near the ceiling and a general aura of disuse and unnecessity. They had been assigned to it regardless. Maria had been trying to pump Josefa up for their work all morning with a nervous energy than her typical and irksome too-sweet smiles. Josefa listened as Maria had droned on as they looked out over the Amphitheatre from the service room catwalk through the great mosaic window implanted in the stone, all curved triangles of glass and thin metal frame. Maria had said Storms were great repair people and always did faster and better jobs than the normies. While Josefa accepted that, she wasn¡¯t happy to be fixing the light in this service room again.


    Now, Maria hung from a pulley in the ceiling, accessed by the catwalk, and they had checked on it with both their weights before stringing a thick rope through the mechanism and getting to work. She sat aboard a plank of wood wound through with the rope one hundred paces up, body swaying to a silent merengue beat, and her head nodded up and down. Josefa preferred banda.


    ¡°Can¡¯t you just fix this thing? We¡¯ve been here too many times.¡±


    ¡°Que, Josi? Just pull back a little more, and I can reach the last line!¡±


    Josefa mocked her sister¡¯s earlier prattling under her breath, ¡°Oh, you¡¯re so strong, Josi. You can handle me; I hardly weigh a thing.¡± Bit delusional. ¡°I¡¯ll remember the rotten food next time.¡±


    ¡°What was that?¡±


    ¡°Nada!¡±


    Little white sparks and arcs zipped from Maria¡¯s fingers through the empty room and into the infinity of the dark. The lamp by Josefa¡¯s feet flickered on the glossed stone floor. The bits of light did not harmonize. She felt her sister¡¯s weight pull and tug from under her armpits, almost a massage if it weren¡¯t for the familial frustration. From the depths of the dark, a black scorpion crept forward to the lamplight, big as Josefa¡¯s straightened hand, palm and fingers and all. She yelped, and her grip on the rope loosened. Maria squealed as she entered the open air on her plank of wood. Josefa caught her sister and breathed out hard. She clung tightly to the rope now.


    ¡°Lo siento! I¡¯ll get you back up!¡±


    Maria said nothing and let herself be raised. Josefa looked back at the scorpion, its deep black shell matched just so with the rest of the Ministry¡¯s walls and floors, walls and floors hidden by a darkness identical to their own absence of color. Its legs tapped on the stone in the lightest of percussion. Josefa pointed and pushed a funnel of a shockwave towards it, and it lifted from the ground and disappeared. She imagined a thousand more just beyond the border of her lamplight in the darkness, and she shuddered. The Ministry was full to the brim of critters like that, and it always made Josefa¡¯s skin crawl. She couldn¡¯t wait to sleep in her own bed for a few nights, away from the pyramid and Maria¡¯s odd absences of late.


    A white light exploded above their heads, and Josefa¡¯s grip on the rope loosened in shock again. Maria let out a screech as she plummeted into the open air. Josefa squeezed her hands tight again, and the rope tried to take some of her palms racing to the pulley at the ceiling. Another screech echoed off the far walls as her sister came to a stop. A deep ache from that intense flash above forced Josefa¡¯s eyes to close, and the pain in her hands squeezed tears down her cheeks. Another flash pierced the dark, and the web of veins in her eyelids were outlined in black on red.


    ¡°Let me down!¡± Maria screamed.


    Josefa blinked the tears from her eyes and a flash came again. She heard her sister shouting curses at her and at the light and at the Parents above. Maria¡¯s cheeriness seemed to have fled with the light. Josefa¡¯s hands worked one under the other to let Maria down, and she didn¡¯t dare let the rope slip now in their hurry. It wouldn¡¯t do to let Maria¡¯s blood and brains stain the stone, killing them both. Other voices shouted from inside the Amphitheatre.


    ¡°What in all the punishments in the Father¡¯s cruel imagination is going on!?¡± Josefa cursed back at her sister. ¡°You hit another live line with your arcs, didn¡¯t you!¡±


    ¡°Get me down! I knew we were taking too long!¡± Maria screamed back down to her.


    What did Maria know about this? This was not some training session become a little too hardcore. Something was very wrong. But there wasn¡¯t time for internal deliberation. Josefa needed her sister down, and they needed out of this place. Her hands worked the rope furiously, and her shoulders prayed to her for relief. ¡°Let me know when you think you can jump! I can¡¯t keep this up after holding up your great weight all day!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not JUMPING! Estas loca?! We should be ok in here!¡± Maria yelled back.


    The room rang like a struck metal drum, and the ground trembled. Crack and bang and the ground began shaking. There was a fight in the Ministry. There must be.


    A boom struck Josefa¡¯s chest unlike anything. It flung the air in her lungs to her spine, her heart fluttering with the bass.


    The twinkle of glass shattering tore Josefa¡¯s attention up to that mosaic window in horror. A swarm of falling glass shards dazzled a foreign night sky of twinkling little stars onto the walls. Big and jagged, tiny and piercing, the glass fell towards them in league with pieces of sharp metal turning in the air, quiet and promising, seeming to fall slow and lethargic. Maria screamed and covered her head with her hands.


    Josefa wouldn¡¯t just stand there and take it, so she got reckless with the blessings in every way she¡¯d been trained not to. Riling that energy in her gut, she pushed from her shoulders and head into the falling cloud of sharp death seeking her and sister. The Thunderhead must protect the Bolt. For there cannot be thunder without lightning.


    Three successive shockwaves blitzed straight up and into the debris cloud, thick walls of white shot through with lightning flashes from the fight in the other room, thickly condensed air to punch anything in their path away.


    Anything but Maria.


    The waves split just around the woman holding onto her rope and plank, then they struck into the cloud of glass. The closest pieces collided with the ceiling and into the walls far away from the twins, an avalanche of deathly ice against black stone in the night. In the thin wake of the split shockwaves, shards of glass and cracked metal fell still, but fewer in number. Some nicked Maria, some the Bolt melted with her lightning, a static ball of charge hanging in the air around her, while others fell past and toward Josefa.


    A large piece of glass slammed into the lamp at Josefa¡¯s feet, sending angry hornets and burning oil in a ring around the impact. Several of those pieces bit into Josefa¡¯s leg and her woven wool pants caught fire. She felt only the impact without the pain, shock and pumping blood keeping her focused. A chorus of similar, bright crashes echoed around her. It could have been beautiful. A small shockwave pushed from Josefa¡¯s calf took care of the fire, and she continued pumping the blasts into the air to clear as much away from Maria as she could.


    Shocks caught more of the falling metal now, but it was heavier and harder to move. A piece missed the meat of Maria¡¯s body, thank the Parents, but crashed into the plank she clung to. It spun the perch round and round. The rope yanked at Josefa as her sister¡¯s weight was flung about from the hit. Her feet were dragged across the glossed ground through a thin film of shattered glass and oil.


    Maria screamed. Josefa screamed too.


    A piece of glass sliced Maria on the thigh before continuing down, and her cries turned desperate. The piece hit the ground and shattered. Blood red shards skidded to a halt at Josefa¡¯s feet. Her hands became slippery with her dreadful rope burn and her sister¡¯s dripping blood.


    ¡°Is it bad?!¡± Josefa called at her sister, knowing Maria¡¯s optimistic answer wouldn¡¯t back up the evidence all over the floor.


    ¡°It won¡¯t be bad if you can get me down soon!¡± Predictable. The woman up above grasped at her leg and held her head in her other hand. Josefa could see the wrote disbelief on Maria¡¯s face.


    Another bit of the mosaic window burst from the wall, and Josefa pushed her shockwaves again toward the danger, the fight on the other side continuing unshaken by the sisters¡¯ plight, the burning in Josefa¡¯s shoulders intensifying from a deep soreness to a sharp searing with each push. She smelled hair singing on her arms as they heated with the stress of her thunderclaps.


    Thunderheads weren¡¯t supposed to focus shocks on the same body parts over and over, but she had no choice.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    With her feet planted and her hands moving in a steady rhythm lowering Maria, she cleared a protective bubble of sound and pressure around herself. The pain in her shoulders became too much while both saving her sister and shoving away glass. Her skin became blistered and angry red with the overuse of her blessing. Frustrated, Josefa drew back into herself and glanced back up to her sister.


    Maria dangled about twenty paces off the ground now. The rage of lightning and thunder in the Amphitheatre shook her and cast her shadow on the stone, blinking in the pulsing lights and looking all the unnatural ways a body could contort in death. Josefa called to her, ¡°You need to jump!¡±


    Nineteen paces in the air.


    ¡°Que?! I¡¯ll shatter what¡¯s left of my leg!¡±


    Eighteen paces.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to lose it to a piece of that window if you don¡¯t!¡±


    Lightning arced into the room and struck the roof. The broken light turned on. Stark whiteness blinded and chased the shadows to the corners of the pyramid.


    Seventeen.


    ¡°Just a little more!¡±


    Sixteen. Fifteen.


    An explosion of electricity and a powerful shockwave broke through the last of the mosaic above.


    ¡°JUST JUMP!¡±


    Panes of glass refracted light onto the walls like a chandelier. Josefa felt her eardrums burst with the pressure. The catwalk broke free of the stone.


    Maria jumped.


    Josefa watched as her sister floated towards the ground, mouth opened in a silent scream. The twinkling glass and metal sought a resting place with their hearts and within their bodies, and it tumbled like it was flowing in a stream of honey. Time crawled as Maria¡¯s arms and legs swung in empty space.


    Then it all came down at once.


    Flashes of light stabbed Josefa¡¯s eyes. Eruptions of sound buffeted her ears. Maria smacked into the ground like a rag doll.


    Chunks of the catwalk came down around them. Josefa summoned her remaining energy and shoved her hands out with a shockwave to protect her sister. It was too little too late.


    Glass broke on twisted metal, and something crashed into Josefa¡¯s chest. She fell and saw her sister lying broken on the ground. A thin line of blood ran past her lips. Josefa¡¯s vision went black, and the ache in her eyes faded. The Mother called to her.


    Buenas noches, mi hija.


    Buenos d¨ªas, mi hija.


    Josefa''s eyes cracked open at the Mother¡¯s greeting. Her chest was hit with a hammer of pain as she breathed. What had transpired was a fresh scar in her memory, and she worried over the extent of damage to her body. She lay in a bed with her torso upright at a slight incline, and thin sheets covered her legs. She tried to sit up straight, but her body refused her commands. She wiggled her toes to make sure she wasn¡¯t crippled. They flinched, at the very least. It felt like her ribs were broken, and a great number of bandages were wrapped around her. She had no shirt, but the bandages covered more skin than most of her work vests anyway. She lifted her hands to her chest to feel out the sources of pain.


    The skin there was all somehow numb and sensitive at the same time, like she was using someone else¡¯s hand to touch her chest, but she got to feel all the pain. She shifted and her left shoulder seized, a bandage thicker than the rest there holding fast to her skin with a strong adhesive. A small red dot stood out at its center. That must be where she¡¯d been struck in the chest after Maria had hit the ground.


    Oh Father, Maria!


    The Bolt must be alive, or Josefa would be a mess of meat and bone. She frantically looked about herself. The room was very dark, but her eyes were beginning to adjust to the blackness. Dim light, the whiteness of the floor lights Maria repaired day in and day out, crept its way under a door on the far side of the room, a few steps from the end of the gurney. Josefa tried extending her arms to the side to see if Maria was lying next to her. A stand with metal trays and more bandages stood between Josefa and another gurney. Her outreached arm knocked a tray to the ground, and a form on the other bed shifted.


    ¡°Josi, I¡¯m glad you¡¯re awake,¡± Maria rasped at her. Despite the weak sound of her sister¡¯s voice, it was still stronger than Josefa felt. ¡°I¡¯ve been awake for a while,¡± Maria continued, ¡°they said they heard your thunder and the catwalk falling. They came for us and brought us to the infirmary.¡±


    Josefa blinked with relief and confusion. How could anyone have picked them out from the cataclysm going on in the Amphitheatre? And Maria seemed in remarkably good condition for the fall she¡¯d taken.


    ¡°Are you not hurt?¡±


    ¡°Ha,¡± Maria coughed a little, ¡°you got the short end of the stick on this one. I only busted my lip and broke some ribs. They said it was a good thing I didn¡¯t land on my feet. No mame?s. But I¡¯m happy you¡¯re even awake. It¡¯s been a week since the attack.¡±


    A week? Josefa had been unconscious a whole week? It seemed she was making fun of Maria for not wanting to get out of bed just that morning. Espera.


    ¡°Attack? What do you mean attack?¡±


    The door to their room opened, and a slight figure outlined by the floor lights outside hobbled in. ¡°I heard you two chatting in here. Que suerte.¡± The figure jabbed a finger out to the hall, ¡°I need some conversation in this gloomy place.¡±


    ¡°Hola, Socorra,¡± Maria raised a hand towards the figure.


    Josefa noticed her sister¡¯s hand was ghastly pale, but that was nothing compared to their apparent company. ¡°Socorra? Like the Arm of the Monastery Socorra?¡± Josefa was dumbstruck. Storm or not, people of her and her sister¡¯s station did not just stumble upon a person in one of the highest positions under the Parents. The Monastery wasn¡¯t the center for governance, but its monks were famous, providing all the spiritual support and scientific progress for the people of La Terra.


    ¡°Hola, soy Socorra. Yes, the one from the Monastery. I pulled a piece of metal from your chest and helped sew you right back up a few days ago. It¡¯s not in my office now.¡±


    ¡°Que?¡±


    ¡°Ah, Maria,¡± Socorra kept speaking without missing a beat, ¡°how do your ribs feel today? On a scale of un perro to¡­ uh¡­ whatever the highest level is, can you run down the halls?¡±


    Maria croaked out a laugh, ¡°I do not think I can run at all, Child.¡±


    Josefa lowered her brows trying to make sense of the situation. ¡°How do you two know each other?¡±


    The little old lady hobbled over to Josefa¡¯s bed while ignoring her question. A bony finger prodded the bandage on her chest. Her body seized with pain, and she gasped.


    ¡°Oh hush, I already took out the metal and didn¡¯t keep it,¡± Socorra chastised.


    Josefa, breathing heavily, snapped, ¡°Why do you insist on telling me you didn¡¯t keep it?¡±


    The bag of bones turned to look at Maria. ¡°Your sister seems to think I have it as a keepsake. Tell her I don¡¯t.¡±


    Josefa was steaming. She felt her awareness move to her hands, an instinct to remove the old hag from the room. They screamed a retort, and Josefa lost her breath.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t do that, Josi,¡± Socorra said the nickname for her with mocking derision and smiled, ¡°your hands might get more broken.¡±


    Why was this woman here? This made no sense. Josefa glared at the putrid sack with disdain. Five seconds with the woman and Josefa already hated her.


    ¡°In any case, if we leave now, we can get front row seats for the executions.¡±


    Socorra called in nurses to wheel the sisters in their mobile beds out into the hall. They were pushed along slow curving hallways wrapped up in the glossy stone of the Ministry. Every hallway, ceiling, and floor reflected their figures like shiny ink. Thin, white strips of light made a continuous stream of luminescence down the halls where floors met walls. Josefa found the smooth glow too artificial, too gloomy, preferring the wild cast of fire by night. Gloomy. That was one thing Socorra had right.


    After what felt like an eon of bumps and shakes of the bed torturing Josefa¡¯s body, the hallway opened to the Amphitheatre. It was an enormous room with a domed ceiling and lighting like the hallways, but it had additional overhead lamps fixed three-quarters of the way up the two-hundred-pace high dome. Men and women could be covered by a pinky at the opposite side of the room. Deep scoring marked the walls and floor. That was new. The mosaic window was blown out halfway up the arc of wall to their right. The service room was likely in shambles on the other side.


    Josefa assumed the executions would be for the massive attack that caused all the mayhem a week before, yet just twenty men and women stood bound at the center of the Amphitheatre. They must be blessed. Ten Storms on their own would already be a force to reckon with, but if they were well-trained¡­ The nurses stopped pushing the beds fifty paces from the line of people.


    ¡°The attackers and their conspirators,¡± Socorra whispered in Josefa¡¯s ear. The woman¡¯s breath reeked of old cheese. The men and women in chains were certainly related.


    ¡°All Storms?¡± Josefa hadn¡¯t heard of an attack or revolt by the blessed in La Terra¡¯s history.


    ¡°Si?, all power plants from the lower levels,¡± Maria interjected.


    ¡°How would you know?¡±


    ¡°I was awake before you,¡± Maria said, ¡°Socorra told me.¡±


    ¡°Si?, si?¡­¡±


    Socorra¡¯s attention never left the bound Storms.


    The company of near-cripples and nurses waited as many people filed into the Amphitheatre from just as many hallways, like the center of some great hive. Nervous murmurs in the crowd echoed around the room and filled Josefa with a sense of anxiety. And all the while, the Arm kept staring at the prisoners. Josefa tried to follow her gaze to a particular one, and she was almost certain the Child¡¯s eyes tracked to the man and women on the right side of the line. Maria stared there now with just as much¡­ sadness? For these criminals?


    Loud, metallic footfalls overtook the melancholic crowd, and everyone fell silent. Twenty men and women in gray armor hammered with the fury of thunder and lit with the blaze of lightning filed in and stood before the prisoners. This new group must be the Ministry¡¯s defensive force of the Parents¡¯ blessed children, delivered by those that bore them to the Ministry for any purpose the Parents required. Today, the gods required death. And just as those Greatstorm demon babies were executed each year, the Parents would eliminate those that stood against them. Ten of the defensive force carried Bolt-arms, two metal bars strapped together and a small projectile placed on an armature between them.


    The Thunderheads unlatched a stand for the weapons and set them on the ground. Their Bolts took their place behind the weapons. They aimed the Bolt-arms at the chest of ten of the prisoners in front of them. The air was sucked from the room with the sound of the faint clanks and clicks of the adjusted weapons. Every person in the crowd stood tense.


    ¡°No, this is barbaric¡­¡± Josefa said under her breath with realization. Capital punishment was useful, by the Parents¡¯ guidance, but this would be torture.


    ¡°It is what must be done,¡± Socorra replied. There was a waver in the old woman¡¯s tone.


    A voice called through the room and above the shifting crowd of Ministry workers, ¡°In accordance with the Parent¡¯s guidance, these men and women will be put to death. At the request of the Father, the harshest punishment will be carried out. Thunderheads, ready your arms.¡±


    The Bolt-arms had been ready the whole time.


    ¡°Bolts, call your lightning.¡±


    Sparks of electricity lit and roamed across the bodies of half the execution force. Their arcs sprinkled the Amphitheatre with fine pops. The faint smell of a sun-filled rainfall drifted through the crowd.


    ¡°By the Parent¡¯s guidance, let their children be punished.¡±


    The sparkling men and women placed fingers on both bars of the Bolt-arms. A sound like a hammer hitting an anvil smacked Josefa in the stomach. People in the crowd choked on their cries in horror. The Bolt-arms were lowered, now empty. One by one, ten of the prisoners collapsed, blood spreading on the black stone. Under that manufactured light, it was impossible to tell where the blood stopped and the stone carried on.


    Screams began to fill the empty space left by the Bolt-arms ring. The rest of the prisoners dropped and writhed on the floor, backs arching to an unnatural angle. Their arms began snapping, and their legs bent the wrong direction at the knees. Their screams went hoarse then turned into something like pig squeals then to quiet gurgles.


    Still, they writhed. An execution of just the Bolts, so their twins broke as a result. There cannot be thunder without lightning.


    Josefa could hear her sister¡¯s sniffling, but that was not her reaction. It wasn¡¯t in her. A hot rage pulsed in her temples instead at the sight of the executioners.


    ¡°Let us return to the infirmary,¡± Socorra said. The nurses turned the beds and pushed them away.

 Chapter 1

    Chapter 1


    Buenos dias, mi hijo.


    Moonlight cast itself into the room and lit the sketches of sundials pinned to the walls.


    Aquiles¡¯ eyes opened fast. A single candle burned light against the wall, flickering shadows popping into existence behind his boots and wardrobe in the opposite corner. He bent up at his waist, short hair bristling at the movement, and made a quick turn to sit on the edge of the bed. A pair of slippers waited for him below his hanging feet. He pushed off the bed with a rigid back and slid his left foot into the left slipper. Then, he slid his right foot into the right slipper. The slippers were of smooth leather, and his feet padded over to a curtain hanging on the wall. He placed his left hand on the left curtain and his right hand on the right curtain. He spread his arms, and the curtains split with a whoosh.


    Aquiles judged the altitude of the moon, the time of year, the suffocating air of the summer, drew in a sigh in his longing for the cold and annoyance at the heat, and determined it was the fifth hour. He was not surprised at this assessment. Aquiles awoke at the same time every day, and he did not employ one of those door-knocking Young Ones to wake him like some of the old Children barely holding on to life. He woke himself. At the fifth hour. Every single day.


    He heard door latches echo in the hallway. Many other Children were waking to go about their daily tasks and business of the Monastery. Young Ones were shuffling around their superiors, head lowered, heading to breakfast or tutelage or to a devious punishment concocted by one of the Children. The people that grew up in the Monastery were held to a high standard, publicly and in the privacy of the pyramid, and Aquiles held himself highest of all. He stood, facing the opening in his quarters out to the city below, and studied the black pyramid across the valley.


    ¡°Good morning, Mother,¡± he responded aloud. That dark shape in the distance, the Ministry, housed the Parents whose praises the Monastery sang. A high standard indeed.


    Aquiles turned around and strode to the wardrobe on the right side of his room. The candle was burning low. He pulled on his woolen robes and went over his schedule for the day. Several lectures - to be received, not given - then likely some writing - result of said lectures - and finally, training. And training just so happened to be what made him famous among the monks of the Monastery. That¡¯s part of why he did it every single day.


    He cinched the cord to hold his brown, woolen robes together around his waist, and he donned his boots. He discarded the slippers, placing them back at the side of his bed where he would use them the next morning. It was unsanitary to walk barefoot on the dirt floors. It was likewise prudent not to brush the robe sleeves against the dirt walls. Really, every surface was dirt, so Aquiles was simply mindful to not make more of a mess.


    His own door latch clicked behind him. A swath of Young Ones froze in step at his appearance, eyes wide like prey sighting the open maw of its predator, then scuttled along with eyes averted and downcast. He was a head taller than every other monk in the Monastery, sometimes two, except for some of the reclusive Storms. Fluttering whispers flitted about in the wake of his passing by the monks-in-training.


    ¡°Arm of Us.¡±


    ¡°Arm.¡±


    ¡°Aquiles.¡±


    Aquiles didn¡¯t enjoy the treatment, that would be too prideful for the Parents¡¯ guidance, but he didn¡¯t mind it. Often, he-


    ¡°Pendejo!¡±


    The thought fled, and Aquiles¡¯ chest tightened. ¡°Buenos dias, Socorra.¡±


    Child Socorra hobbled down the dirt hallway, periodic lamplight casting her bent shadow onto the walls, hair like a thunderstorm wrangled by the Parents sitting on her shoulders trapped in a thick braid. The faces of Young Ones froze in fear. Aquiles knew that fear growing up in these halls. The rumors about the old Arm of the Monastery were enough to dash the head of any wild spirit on a rock.


    ¡°It¡¯s Child Socorra, to you. Your recent nomination does not preclude you from using the correct titles,¡± Socorra replied in an unnerving, measured tone. Very uncharacteristic. ¡°You should lower your head when addressing a superior as well.¡±


    ¡°Lo siento,¡± Aquiles bowed at a shallow angle and lowered his head, ¡°I will not-¡±


    Socorra smacked the back of his neck and tipped him forward onto the dirt floor. Aquiles grunted and quivered at the thought of all the feet passing over right where his face now contacted the dirt. He stood and brushed himself off, and Socorra, Child Socorra, the shriveled puta, was nowhere to be seen.


    Her voice barked behind him, and Aquiles jumped and spun. She continued, ¡°Tell Horacio to make your training miserable today!¡± Socorra cackled. ¡°I¡¯d hate for this lesson to go unlearned, pendejo!¡± Very characteristic.


    ¡°Yes, Child.¡±


    The cackles carried on down the hallway as the true Arm of the Monastery disappeared from view. She was shorter than just about every person living in the pyramid, likely by as much as Aquiles was taller. So, it was easy to lose sight of her¡­ but not the sound of her. A little girl cried out further down the hall and a string of raspy cursing and scolding gave the vieja away again.


    Warm torchlight wavered on the dirt walls and dirt ceilings and dirt floors, shifted on the dirt now covering Aquiles¡¯ robes and face, heat flaring that hot temper rising in him. A compliment to the warmth of the Mother¡¯s greeting, a contrast to that of Socorra¡¯s.


    Perdon. Child Socorra.


    Aquiles made his way to the Childrens¡¯ mess hall. His nomination to apprentice to the Arm of the Monastery, a position he hoped would not turn him into that foul woman traipsing around the pyramid that very moment, weighed on his mind. He scowled. Then, realizing his own foulness, stood up straighter and walked true and put on a smile. The Young Ones in the halls seemed to shy away even more at that expression when compared to his typical deadpan. Aquiles was well on his way to mastering the sword, perhaps he should train in this too.


    Monk quarters, old and young, Child and Young One, made up much of the first level in the pyramid with the higher levels devoted to teaching and study. He walked past many hallways shooting off the main thoroughfare to the heart of the pyramid. Given the shape of the structure and necessity to house as many people would live in the Monastery, the Parents had perfectly designed the pyramid. Had the Ministry been designed in much the same way? El Sonando de Metal housed all the guards for the government, but the Ministry¡¯s Storm quarters still must make up some good portion of the twin pyramid. The Monastery¡¯s own Storm quarters were located close to the peak, but very few lived in the religious center when compared to the government. Then, of course, the Monastery peak held gardens up to the sun while the Ministry¡¯s held executions. Best those Greatstorm babies not grow to destroy La Terra and the Parents.


    Aquiles made it out of the quarters and into the Main Square of the pyramid. Monks in brown, woolen robes bustled in every direction, carrying every assortment of items imaginable, ink and paper, sword and spear, cafe? and p¨¢n, goat and sheep. Rather impressive wrangling both animals under each arm. Stone benches rimmed the square, and a great staircase cornered up the narrowing walls. Bald, balding, and tightly bound hair on bobbing heads poked out over thick stone rails as monks went about their business. The floor of the Main Square was stone, the only place besides the great stair with that solid, and mostly clean, footing in the whole pyramid.


    The Childrens¡¯ mess was a mass of the same brown, woolen robes bent over bowls and plates. Smells of charred meat and tortillas scratched through the air on a light smoke making a haze of the faces of the quiet monks. He walked past all those popular dishes. Bland porridge made a hearty breakfast. Aquiles did not waste time enjoying his food, he just needed the nutrients and energy for his day. A curved crack in the spoon annoyed him and deigned to leave a splinter in his lip. Young Ones and Children were permitted to drink coffee in the mornings. He never understood why someone would let themselves rely on a drink to begin their day. Wake up and begin. It was not a difficult prospect.


    Bowl empty, stomach satisfied yet not too full for he was not a glutton, Aquiles stood and nodded at the trio of reticent monks he was sitting beside. They simply followed his movements with their eyes, chewing their food. Many of them weren¡¯t fond of him anymore. Youngest Arm in, well, ever. They should direct their anger to Child Socorra for the nomination; few of the monks had ever been fond of her. And yet, each of them respected her. The explosion in religious outreach the Monastery had fostered under her leadership was inspiring. Aquiles wished she didn¡¯t have to be so¡­ difficult.


    ¡°Gracias,¡± Aquiles bowed to the still seated monks, ¡°for letting me dine with you this morning.¡±


    ¡°By the Parents¡¯ guidance, nin?o,¡± the eldest looking of the three responded past a mouthful of charred carne cecina and dressed porridge.


    Nin?o. Aquiles would not be called a boy any longer. His jaw clenched and his head jerked in a nod, and he strode off to his first lecture of the day.


    The profesora was covering star and sun charts in today¡¯s lecture. She faced the board sketched with an analemma of the sun over La Valle de Las Tormentas, the bowl of earth where the Capital resided. She spoke how an astronomer would expect the lopsided infinity shape to slant and stretch in the north over the rainforests or to the east over the fishing towns. Aquiles was interested, to be sure, astronomy was his favorite of the subjects, yet his distractions won his attention. On one hand, the pilgrimages would begin, and his new position would require him to lead mass with the ¡®country folk¡¯. To be polite. The new Arm¡¯s face had to be known to the public. The Ministry got to rely on the Parents for authority in governance, but the Monastery had to rely on a trusted leader to guide worship and religious thought. Aquiles could stare down five sharpened and singing swords, but five hundred dirty faces sounded a death sentence.


    He tried not to think of the other, more unique, responsibilities of the Arm. Namely, speaking with the Father directly to solicit his guidance for the Monastery. But never mind that. His training today would now be difficult thanks to Child Socorra. On top of it all, another new Child had been following at his heels like a yapping stray. If Emilia could just give him a chance to breathe, he might think about speaking with her past frivolities.


    ¡°Arm?¡±


    Aquiles shook himself. The profesora held an inquisitive look, one eyebrow arched like Aquiles hadn¡¯t shown up to class with any robes on. He glanced down at his clothed body and breathed out in relief. ¡°Si??¡±


    ¡°My, my. The new position going to your head already? Responding to Arm and not your name. Que lastima.¡±


    ¡°I was distracted. I apologize, Child Lola.¡±


    ¡°No matter, I¡¯ll ask the question a third time. What is the significance of the relationship between the alphabet and the hours past astronomers set to time the days?¡±


    Aquiles gulped. Twenty-seven letters, twenty-seven hours, twenty-nine other newly promoted Children in their final astronomy class. Wait, that last one was unimportant. Emilia, short, light hair on a shorter, lighter frame watched him expectantly and winked. He wanted to scowl at her. He answered, ¡°I do not know.¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°Good, we do not know either. Clearly, our ancestors were quite taken with the movement of the sun, and some of the driving aspects of our culture share characteristics due to this. Thank you for admitting your ignorance, nin?o.¡±


    There it was again.


    ¡°Thank you as well.¡±


    The profesora spun from making new marks on the board. ¡°You train today, yes?¡±


    Of course he did. Aquiles sighed, ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Tell Child Horacio to make your training miserable.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Child.¡±


    Smug and satisfied, she turned to make more marks on the board with her chalk. Leaning forward and dipping his reed into the inkpot, Aquiles forced himself to take notes, now a welcome distraction from the beating he was going to take this afternoon with Horacio.


    Aquiles¡¯ back was stiff after sitting through his lectures. Child Socorra told him he was stiff all the time, however he doubted she had the same meaning in mind. He reached behind himself to untie the knots on the waist cord. The robes dropped off his shoulders, flaring in the air. He caught them and shook them out, dirt from his run in with the judgmental hag this morning drifting to his feet. He shook those too, rolled his ankles. Had to be pristine when he would walk up the ramp to the training ground and ask for his own culo to be handed to him by Horacio.


    Well, the Child would try.


    The hangers placed along the ready room held robes of Young Ones and Children of every rank and type. They all mastered combat forms. Some weren¡¯t as zealous as Aquiles, he tried not to think less of them. A pinch formed in the fabric as Aquiles added his own robe to the fine collection. He smoothed the irking peak and turned, shirtless, and indeed stiff, watching shadows of the Children above tango in a deadly dance, mariachis of ringing metal and clattering clubs and the grunts of men.


    This ready room was lit with the same torches as the rest of the Monastery, dirt ceiling held high by the same dirt floors, but smoldering with a feeling, an instinct, a fire that was all its own. Aquiles cocked his head right then left. He pulled his right knee to his chest, pivoted his left foot, and extended his right leg to the wall. Aquiles felt a satisfying and familiar stretch as he applied more and more pressure. Then, he did the same on the other side of his body, the same depth and stretch, a strong and even balance. An indent on the wall cradled his foot. He liked his routines.


    The ramp was a slight incline carrying its passengers from the belly of the towering Monastery into open air beyond its sloped and terraced walls. Fresh air filled Aquiles¡¯ lungs, energy flowing into his shoulders and chest, into his core and back, down into his toes. Those he wiggled and shifted, then tensed his legs and bounced on the ball of his feet, sun baking the left side of his face. It was low in the sky now, nearly blocked by the ring of mountains fortifying the Capital and its inhabitants. There were no enemies to fortify against, but a fortress they made, nonetheless.


    There were no enemies to fight against, but the monks trained, nonetheless. It was not a thing of combat, but of art. These Children and Young Ones did not learn to fight a faceless foe. They learned to dance with their fellow man, by the Parents¡¯ guidance. A martial art was an honorable dedication for a monk¡¯s life, inspired by the Father¡¯s own mastery of weapons. Oh, how the sun baked in this summer afternoon, but that was a good thing. It made sparring easy in better conditions. Aquiles¡¯ sought out Child Horacio.


    Horacio was not hard to find. A ring of students stood around some sparring match, clicks and clacks echoing about the training square. This duo must be seeking real blows then, no sense in killing each other with real metal when you can beat the mierda out of each other with wooden practice swords. Aquiles approached the ring, the youngest students turning and relieving their position to him, heads bowed, and he took a spot at the inner diameter of the circle to watch the match.


    And find Horacio he did.


    Aquiles watched with pride in his master¡¯s performance. Horacio¡¯s opponent was another of the zealots of the sword, a hopeful for the council of weapons masters presiding over the training grounds: Child Izan. There was a breath in the clash, a brief pause to size up the state of the opponent. Horacio, wiry with grey, bushy eyebrows and a jaw jutting from his face like he was always tilting his head up in a laugh, his lower teeth protruding from his lip and just hidden by a mustache to shame his unruly eyebrows. The man came up to Aquiles¡¯ chest and had fifty years on his star pupil, weighing as many pounds less. Izan was a master in his own right, square jaw, clean shaven, and pure black hair, squat and sturdy and surprisingly fast, but he was heaving breath while Horacio could not have been breathing at all. The clash began again.


    Stereotypes of the old master fighting with caution and fighting slow did not influence Child Horacio¡¯s style with the sword. He lunged forward, off-hand retaining his balance and front leg extending to nearly a split, a misdirection to seem as if he extended himself too far. Izan swept for it and sprung the trap. Seeming to grasp at an invisible hand hold in the air, Horacio heaved himself back with another quick jab in his retreat, catching the younger master in the gut with the poke. Izan dropped his stance and hung his head. The ring of students cheered and wooted at the final display.


    ¡°Ay, los Padres mi?o. I fell for that again.¡±


    ¡°Not to worry, you got a hit on me this time around.¡±


    ¡°I knicked your arm with my sword point as I fell¡­ after you kicked me where you had just stabbed me!¡±


    Horacio smiled, the underbite now successfully poking through the rainforest of hair on his upper lip, ¡°And I should have been aware of where your sword was when I did so. Could¡¯ve been a nasty scratch.¡±


    Izan sighed, ¡°Gracias.¡± He bowed slightly and began to walk away.


    ¡°You pass, Izan. Welcome to the council.¡±


    Izan stopped mid-step and turned; shock written on his face as clear as a sundial writes the time on stone. ¡°Verdad? Are you joking?¡±


    ¡°I do not joke,¡± Child Horacio replied as a matter of fact. Aquiles snorted. That was certainly a fact. Horacio continued, ¡°You scored a hit. Eberardo over there couldn¡¯t do that.¡± Horacio gestured with his sword without looking beyond the ring to a seated monk with a fistful of berries and another fistful of queso blanco.


    ¡°Que??¡±


    ¡°Nothing, Eberardo.¡±


    The portly monk harrumphed.


    Horacio patted Izan on the shoulder, and the crowd¡¯s cheering doubled over when the match had ended. ¡°Felicidades,¡± Horacio cheered with his great smile. Izan nodded at Horacio then looked around the ring of cheering students. He saw Aquiles and grinned.


    ¡°Child Horacio, your next plaything has arrived.¡±


    Horacio¡¯s back straightened and he looked over his shoulder at Aquiles. The crowd stopped cheering. Aquiles¡¯ heart sank.


    ¡°Back to training, all of you,¡± Horacio called out to the students. Then, he addressed Aquiles as Aquiles so wished he wouldn¡¯t, ¡°I heard the Arm say she wanted her new apprentice to train hard today.¡± Horacio¡¯s smile took on the cast of some devious child looking to kick a puppy, or pull the legs off a defenseless spider, or spit in its mother¡¯s cafe? when she wasn¡¯t looking. Aquiles shuddered.


    ¡°Si?. And¡­¡±


    ¡°And?! Do we have a treat today!¡±


    Aquiles shouted in a proud defiance. ¡°And Profesora Lola expressed a similar interest!¡± He could handle whatever Child Horacio had to throw at him.


    Horacio reached into his robes and rummaged around. Really, this didn¡¯t make any sense. The robes had no pockets or places to store anything. But that didn¡¯t matter as Horacio produced a spoon with a familiar curved crack in it. How could he have possibly planned this?


    Horacio threw the spoon at him.


    With a decidedly spooky smile now, Horacio spoke, ¡°En garde.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t warmed up!¡±


    Horacio swiped his sword and turned to a fighting stance, extending his off-hand behind his head. ¡°Suit yourself.¡±


    ¡°Mierda.¡±


    Aquiles was a sword master in all but official title, and Horacio agreed to hold the test Izan had just passed in no less than a month¡¯s time away from this punishment. Yet, he was not a spoon master.


    Air swished past his neck, Child Horacio¡¯s sword tip a blazing log in the waning sunlight. Goosebumps rose on Aquiles¡¯ skin at the cool current of the close pass.


    Spoon master was not yet an official title of the council. Perhaps he could make it so.


    A grin, then a smirk pulled, then tugged, then yanked at his lips, hair on his neck bristling with a new vigor and his heart pumping that adrenaline he so came to care for and to long for. Aquiles threw himself down and rolled over his back and shoulder, putting ten extra paces between him and the wry old man.


    ¡°En garde, maestro.¡±


    At that, Horacio smiled too, then wiped his face of cheer.


    Child Horacio sauntered forward then lunged with an elegance no man of his age should possess. Aquiles slid his right foot behind and bent forward at the waist. The flat of Horacio¡¯s sword, in turn, slid along Aquiles¡¯ back. He shivered at the soft touch of the wood worn by years of training. Horacio¡¯s wispy hair caught the wind, and his grey eyes showed no strain or emotion. The Child was dark, wrinkled skin and bones, but Aquiles knew his strikes were devastating. Blocked blows could jar hands and rattle bones. A spoon would just be ruined, so blocking was out of the question regardless.


    Three quick swipes of the blade, and three near-misses, as Aquiles bent and spun around the sword, but his eyes were on his master. He watched the feet, but not too closely, the feet could lie. He watched the hips, but not with trust, the hips could deceive. He never watched the eyes. Horacio could fight with those closed.


    Instinct and experience drove his movements. Aquiles spun his breathing into his steps and glides, and that burn of his muscles with the dance caught him all the same. He didn¡¯t much care. He¡¯d learned to work past it. Horacio lunged again. Aquiles sidestepped left then ducked hard and rolled up to the right, and spoon whistling, knocked Horacio in the ear lobe as the old man adjusted. He¡¯d meant for that to hit the Child¡¯s temple. He¡¯d fallen for the same farce as Izan.


    Aquiles sucked in, movements and breath timed to work past the burn, and spun into Horacio, gambling the retreat jab would follow the same trajectory as he¡¯d seen minutes before. The poke that caught Horacio¡¯s former victim in the stomach only grazed Aquiles¡¯ own. A crowd formed about them now. The crowd had likely been there longer and simply escaped Aquiles¡¯ notice. His eyes were on Horacio¡¯s feet and hips and sword and hands and all the things that told Aquiles what would happen when he knew those events could not possibly come to pass. Yet, his focus, his attention, and his guile were on the tell Horacio had developed at the beginning of the week when the ignoble Socorra had whacked him with the flat of a sword over a thinly veiled jibe. Horacio should be more careful. Students were taught to be observant in the Monastery. Aquiles caught the limp in the Child¡¯s left leg when he faced Izan.


    A tendon flared as Horcaio¡¯s weight shifted on his well-hidden bad leg, and Aquiles feigned to the right in response before sweeping in, spoon stretched to scoop the sword from Horacio¡¯s weak grip and win-


    Horacio punched Aquiles in the face with his off-hand.


    A tender warmth dripped over Aquiles¡¯ lips as his vision focused on the sky and his shoulders adjusted to hard packed earth beneath him. The crowd laughed and jeered, yes in good faith, but Aquiles still angered. Blood stained his teeth and tainted his tongue, and Aquiles spat on the ground and rolled over and stood. His nose throbbed and a thousand daggers stabbed his forehead when he took a breath through his messy nostrils. Broken.


    ¡°We do not teach that sort of thing here, maestro.¡±


    Horacio shook his hand from the blow, ¡°You do not teach anything here at all. Allow me to lecture and lead, nin?o.¡±


    ¡°I would teach we are not brutes, nor do we fight for no reason! There are customs. There are rules. That was not a fair fight.¡±


    ¡°Oh, si?? You would teach. Que bueno! Teach me how to become a better swordsman in a life of fair fights, nin?o.¡±


    Nin?o. Nin?o, nin?o, ni?o.


    ¡°Enough! Enough with this talking down to me! I am a Child of the Parents and of the Monastery and the next Arm to hear the words of the Father directly. I deserve respect!¡±


    Aquiles wrenched a practice sword from the hands of the nearest student in the stunned crowd, broken nose forgotten. Horacio¡¯s eyes saddened and his head shook as those sad eyes met his own feet. Aquiles attacked.


    Horacio blocked each blow effortlessly, feet shifting and head bobbing, off-hand placed in space, gaining him leverage with each counterstrike and movement. Aquiles struck forward, violent swipes of the thin blade catching on the wall of defense that was Horacio¡¯s stance. One blow too many, and Horacio swung out his blade and took Aquiles at the ankle, the great Arm of the Monastery on his back again in the dust.


    Horacio bent down to meet Aquiles eye to eye. ¡°Any man shouting for his respect shall not receive it from the horses in the stable, nor the pigs in their filth,¡± Horacio whispered the statement for Aquiles alone. A silent crowd watched on. Then, loudly, ¡°You are a fantastic swordsman. Do not shame yourself by fighting with anger. We are none of us true opponents here,¡± Horacio gestured about himself to the crowd. Whispering again, Horacio hissed in Aquiles¡¯ ear, ¡°News of your temper tantrum here will spread. Nin?o.¡± He held out a hand to Aquiles.


    Heart burning in his chest, teeth pressed together as a vice in the smithies, Aquiles flinched back from the offer. Horacio reached forward, insisting, and Aquiles felt a tear well in his eye. He took Horacio¡¯s hand and wiped his eye as he stood, hiding it behind wiping sweat from his brow. Aquiles should feel anger for this humiliation. He should feel shame for putting himself in this situation. He should know what to feel.


    Child Horacio watched him intently, then patted him on the back, ¡°Run the training ground until the last Young Ones leave for the night and think on it.¡± Aquiles did just that.


    Dirt floor. Dirt ceiling. Dirt walls. Wooden door. A relief. Aquiles slunk into his room, legs and lungs on fire from hours of running and vomiting. Horacio had not relented in the punishment. Aquiles hadn¡¯t wished him to. Sweat flowed freely over his flint and steel as Aquiles tried to light his candle. He could not sleep without it. The flint refused to spark with several more strikes, and Aquiles flung it across the room. Despite his exertions, he had not worked through his thoughts on the utter derision from the Children he¡¯d experienced through the day, and, truly, the weeks since his nomination. He wanted to earn respect, but what did he need to do other than what he¡¯d already accomplished?


    He spent hours of tossing under the rough covers of wool in his bed before the moon rose to a height enough to trickle luminescence into the gloom of the dark room. Aquiles took comfort in that. He slept.


    Buenas noches, mi hijo.

 Chapter 2

    Chapter 2


    Buenos dias, mi hijo.


    Arturo¡¯s eyes opened to a cast of checkered light from the canvas tent he had set up the night before. He thought of returning the Mother¡¯s greeting today in his mind, and he wondered, not for the first time, if the ever-watching goddess heard his responses. After all, Arturo didn¡¯t want to burden her with extra thoughts if every person across La Terra sent her their own greetings every time they awoke. That could get awfully annoying.


    An unfriendly, yet all-too-familiar pain greeted his hands, his feet, his face, his bones and muscle, and the little lights and shadows pecked at his eyes. He stretched his legs, and the rough fabric of his cot was a tearing grate to his skin. It recoiled away from every touch like it was rebelling at the concept of staying attached to him. Arturo very much hoped it would. That could make for a ruder awakening than even he was used to. He swung his legs off the cot and stood. Carefully. Always carefully.


    His shambling feet swept up loose dirt and dust from the arid plains he and his companion shepherded. Arturo bent down to his boots, dry and cracked and ready for new soles since last summer, and he pulled them deliberately towards himself. Inside, wraps of worn and soft wool were bundled up and waiting to grace his aching bones with their cushion. Arturo adopted wrapping his feet when he was quite young, along with many other little practices to make his pain a little more bearable. He needed tight fitting clothes to avoid unexpected brushes against his sensitive skin from the rough fabric his pueblo so loved to wrangle into submission. He had to keep his distance from the crowds when the vendedores came to show their wares because people didn¡¯t care much about who they bumped into. And most painfully, he passed at first on the advances of his novia when she didn¡¯t quite understand his condition yet, not that he really understood it either. Valeria had caught up eventually. Thanks to everything good in the world, she caught up. His knuckles seized and his hands shook and interrupted his thoughts.


    Arturo steeled himself and wrapped his feet in the wool. Thanks to the sheep and his job keeping them alive, he had plenty of access to the stuff for all his heightened comfort needs. He slipped on the boots over his swaddled feet and held his breath to tighten the straps and laces. No amount of padding saved him from this part. He yanked on the laces, and he whimpered. He did the same on the other side. The leather straps held everything together around his calves and ankles. Tightening them felt like getting hit with a hammer from every angle at the same time.


    The air of the tent was becoming too stuffy, so Arturo fumbled with the wooden toggles holding the tent¡¯s flaps, cursed his uncooperative fingers, and stepped into the fresh air of the plains. The herd was a good three-day ride by wagon north of his pueblo. Sheep grazed on tall, hardy grass in a great circle of bleating and screeching several hundred paces across. Arturo took a deep breath. The air out here was hot too, but that was ok. He ducked his head back into the tent and came out with a thin woolen shirt, sun-bleached by his days tending his sheep. He tightened the shirt¡¯s straps and clenched his jaw against the stabs in his chest. He was prepared for them. That didn¡¯t make it hurt less.


    Arturo longed for a release from this. That wasn¡¯t a typical feeling for him, the pain was part of his life, it was his life, and he didn¡¯t seek a true respite. Sometimes people need to feel a little pain to know they¡¯re alive. But this day¡¯s longing was different because soon a respite is just what he would get. The best time of each year, yet also the hardest: the Pilgrimage to the Capital.


    Many people in the outlying pueblos of La Terra made the annual trips to the Capital to attend mass and worship the Parents. The Mother. And the Father. The Mother was a present touch in every person¡¯s life, a brief joy in the morning, and a soothing solace to send her children to sleep. The Father was less so. He would send his children terrible visions of terrible violence, another annual tradition from the Capital. None of this compared to the blessing of simply being in the Capital, in the home of the Parents. There, by the Parents¡¯ love, Arturo¡¯s pain left him. There, Arturo could be normal.


    Getting to the city, however, was a battle of will against his own body and mind. Every bump of the wagon, every splinter of wood, every lick of heat from the campfires sent him to dark and hateful places. Arturo would fight with everything in himself to feel the wagon¡¯s wood and the warming fires for what they were. Comfort. Simple. Then, as the wagons drew closer and closer to the Capital¡¯s gates, the pain would flow out of him like a river, a flash flood in these dry plains.


    Arturo longed for it, yes, but he worried for his strength.


    A rustling of fabric and muted curses came from the tent pitched next to his own. It seemed Barto was awake and in a great hurry to be as unpleasant as he was every day. Arturo chuckled to himself and shook his head. He loved the old grouch for it.


    Barto¡¯s gnarled roots of hands jammed through the fixed flaps of his tents and tried to pull them apart. The toggles held fast. ¡°Pinche pendejo,¡± the old man cursed himself. The flaps fell slack and Barto stumbled into the light. ¡°It¡¯s hotter than the Father¡¯s culo out here!¡±


    Arturo sighed and chided, ¡°Buenos dias.¡±


    ¡°Buenos dias,¡± Barto growled. ¡°Take the waterskins down to the creek before the sun bakes the thing dry.¡± He tossed three leather sacks at Arturo¡¯s feet.


    ¡°Can you say please? Barto, you¡¯re an old man, hasn¡¯t your mama? taught you any manners by now?¡± Arturo snickered and bent to pick up the sacks. He would do pretty much anything the old man asked of him, but he always got in a few licks to get Barto riled up. Arturo¡¯s pants bit into his stomach and he convulsed, nearly collapsing from the pain. Barto moved to help, worried look on his face despite his grumpy demeaner. ¡°Please don''t,¡± Arturo gasped at him, ¡°I¡¯m fine. You know how it is.¡± He straightened his back and breathed out.


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t make it better, pendejo.¡± And there grumpy was.


    Arturo patted Barto¡¯s squat shoulders and said, ¡°I¡¯ll get the water. Watch to the east. I think I noticed some of the sheep stirring more than normal.¡± Barto grunted in response, and Arturo turned to the west with the waterskins in hand. The sun beat at his back without mercy, and it would continue for many hours to come. He watched how far his shadow stretched and judged it must be the seventh or eighth hour of the day. Arturo wasn¡¯t an expert astronomer. That was for the pompous monks in the Monastery.


    Tall grass swayed in a light, dry breeze to scratch at the wool of Arturo¡¯s pants. The crotch and seat of the garment were starting to come undone. Valeria could sew them back together when Arturo returned to the pueblo in less than a week¡¯s time. His novia loved to help him with the little struggles of daily life, and he loved her for it. He loved her for a lot of things. She was beautiful, of course, and of course, that was a much too simple description of her. It wasn¡¯t just that beauty, that thick hair that seemed to find its way into every nook and corner of his home and between his fingers. It was the life in her eyes, and it was the ringing of festival bells in her laugh, in her chuckle. The grass scratched at Arturo¡¯s pants, and his joints felt swollen to bursting in his knees and knuckles, but it was the calm of her whispers in his ear to drive his feet.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    A rather lazy excuse for a river, much more of a creek, crept through the grass several hundred paces from the shepherds¡¯ camp, far enough from the bleating of the sheep to allow Arturo to listen to the natural buzz of the plains. Insects of all sorts, though mostly grasshoppers, jumped and jigged and jolted through the air over the water. The soft dirt nearest the creek - Arturo would not call this a river, he didn¡¯t care what the maps said - was bubbling with the movements of worms and other creepy, crawling forms of life. One of the plentiful grasshoppers landed on his shoulder after a particularly impressive leap from a stalk of its namesake. Arturo yelped and shivered at the feeling of tiny tapping legs running on his skin. Just because he worked out here his whole life, well his whole adult life, didn¡¯t mean he had to love all of it. These critters were much more enjoyable dried out with chile? and limo?n. The edible ones at least.


    Arturo lowered the first waterskin into the shallow water. Its warmth drifted over his worn-out hands and soothed their shaking, sending ripples out from where they met the surface. It would be warm in his mouth, and it would taste unpleasant, and Arturo would be happy and grateful all the same to have such an easy source of water to drink from. It meant less walking for him, so he¡¯d need less in the first place. Arturo thought it best to keep an eye on the horizon for good things to come rather than the dirt at his feet.


    Larger ripples danced now across the creek from upstream.


    The hair on the back of Arturo¡¯s neck stood on end, and his heart began beating like death drums in his ears. That pulse was painful. The tension in his muscles was more so. Something was watching him.


    A crunch under a foot, a hoof, a paw, and Arturo swung around and dove to the ground. His chest thundered with the impact, each rib threatening to pop out and make a run for it on their own. Arturo¡¯s vision darkened with the sudden crescendo in his pain. He¡¯d gotten used to a certain, constant level, so big jumps from that were difficult to handle. He was very, exceedingly careful about his movements to avoid this. Arturo fought the dark and stood to fight.


    One small sheep meandered from the tall grass and sucked at the stilling creek. Arturo let out a breath he hadn¡¯t realized was lodged in his throat. Sheep all around him for as far as he could see, and he was worried about something prowling around in there? These observant little cretons would be screaming and running in every direction. The shepherds had problems with foxes sneaking about for the lamb in the herd, but nothing ever seriously dangerous. Not since last season anyway.


    Arturo took his careful steps over to the young sheep and gave the timid creature a grin. He¡¯d been told it was very disarming, had worked on Valeria. The sheep jumped and turned to run back into the protection of the grass. A red, wet streak tore through its coat on the shank that now faced him. Arturo cooed at it and drew some of the spare wool fabric tucked in his waistband to carry the waterskins. The sheep bleated as he cleaned and wrapped the wound. ¡°What happened here¡­¡± he lowered his head and lifted the animal¡¯s leg, ¡°¡­nin?o?¡± It stared at him with wide eyes. What had happened indeed? Come to think of it, how had the sheep caused those ripples upstream if it had been behind him?


    He cursed and turned towards the creek again as a low growl filled the clearing around the river. A puma squatted on its hindlegs, fangs bared, right paw stained with a touch of blood. ¡°Ay, mierda,¡± Arturo hissed, he turned and ran. The puma followed.


    Grass didn¡¯t just scratch at him now as he ran, the thick stalks battered his legs and snagged the skin on his forearms. For once, the pain in his feet wasn¡¯t a problem, running with the adrenaline of a puma right behind him. The cat struggled through the vegetation, a little out of its normal hunting grounds, but a capable hunter, nonetheless. Arturo cut to the left, hoping the grass would obscure the shorter animal¡¯s view of him. And it had! Then, the cat turned and followed. It wouldn¡¯t be that simple.


    Breath wheezed in his lungs and fire burned in his legs. Arturo hadn¡¯t needed to move like this since his futbo?l matches when he was a kid. Too bad he played keeper. Barto would be laughing up a storm to see him struggling now.


    ¡°Barto!¡±


    Was the man alright? Arturo risked a glance back. The puma was right on him. Its unbloodied paw raked out and scored a clean slash down the back of his pant leg. He screamed as a renewed fury burst through his adrenaline and he went to the ground. The puma overshot him, claws catching in the thick grass. Blood began to soak Arturo¡¯s foot wraps and snaked its way into his boot sole. The scratch throbbed, and his joints scolded him for all this effort.


    ¡°Ay, you big ugly cat! Leave that sad boy alone!¡± Barto yelled, unseen to Arturo. Thank the Parents.


    The twang of a bow string and the snick of a flying arrow burying itself in flesh were almost enough to get Arturo out of the dirt and jumping with glee. The puma¡¯s face emerged from the grass ahead of him, an arrow buried in its shoulder, yet very much alive. That, at least, got Arturo out of the dirt. He would do the jumping another time.


    An arrow whistled by him, and Arturo ducked back down as the puma yowled and leapt through the air where his head had been. ¡°You nearly shot me, pinche viejo!¡± Arturo screamed into the air at Barto. No response. He stood again, his aching a thunderstorm in every inch of his body, and he limped as fast as he could towards the tents. Barto was hobbling towards the tents as well, the puma now chasing him after its missed attempt on Arturo. The tents were only a hundred paces away now, a little towards his right. He needed his own bow.


    The cat noticed Arturo up and moving again and seemed to come to a dilemma. Old and tender, or young and injured. It seemed to like its current feebler choice and continued after Barto.


    The old man reached his tent on the right as Arturo got halfway to his own on the left. Barto bolted inside, and the puma made its way into the flattened grass that made up their camp. It came to a halt, confused at how the lucky archer disappeared. Not too smart then. A great roar erupted from Barto¡¯s tent as Arturo reached the clearing.


    The sound was out of a story book, the rush of wind of a Greatstorm¡¯s fury, the crack of the Father¡¯s voice. A long, metal wire affixed to stretched sheep hide on a wooden drum, to be more accurate. Barto emerged from the tent, hands stretched into the air, shaking the Storm-box. ¡°Get! Get! Gato! Get!¡± He yelled at the puma. The big cat¡¯s ears flattened, it hissed and turned to run. Then, the young and injured option shuffled into its view.


    ¡°Ay, mierda.¡±


    The puma leapt for him.


    Arturo¡¯s breath caught, and the world seemed to freeze. Barto¡¯s wild Storm-box filled Arturo¡¯s head with an overwhelming tumult. His ears rang, and the puma hung in the air. The slice in his leg went suddenly cold, his hands clenching into fists all on their own. An instant, a breath, a year, and the puma hit him.


    That moment vanished. Claws scored across his chest and ripped open his shirt and skin. Blood filled his vision. He felt each puncture, pull, and tear of those living knives in his body. Arturo stopped feeling the pain, just the sensation of his muscles coming undone and his bones breaking under the mauling. The puma went to bite his neck, and his right hand, still clenched in a fist, came up to meet the cat¡¯s open maw.


    The puma just¡­ disappeared.


    It really was odd for it to leave like that. It had him caught, a perfect meal. Weak and ready for eating. Some animals were rather skittish. Maybe his blood smelled weird. He sniffed, no, smelled normal. What was a normal blood smell? The dirt smelled odd out here. Arturo had always noticed that. Why did his hand hurt so much? His mind was all unstrung wool and fuzz. ¡°Que lata,¡± he murmured and looked at his balled-up fist.


    Funny. Another peculiar thing, his hand was painted all red, quite a dark red. Not quite the shade in El Mercado Rojo. He couldn¡¯t wait for the food and drink there. Arturo shook his head and squinted his eyes. He heaved himself to his feet. His ears were ringing. He looked at his hand again. Red, warm, pain, much too warm to be painted. He looked at the tents. Wow! Painted just the same. He looked down at this chest¡­


    His shirt and skin hung off his body like rags.


    The sound returned to his ears. Someone was screaming. It was just Barto. Oh, no, Arturo was screaming too. The puma¡¯s head rested near the newly painted tent flap. It might be screaming too if it was still attached to the rest of its body.


    Pain drew Arturo¡¯s attention back to his red hand. It really hurt. He looked back over himself, at Barto, at the decapitated puma. Where had its body gone? Strings of intestine and viscera hung off Barto. What?


    Arturo¡¯s hand spasmed and drove him back to the ground. He gasped for breath, and a serenity took him in darkness.


    Buenas noches, mi hijo.

 Chapter 3

    Chapter 3


    Buenos dias, mi hijo.


    Rays of light split darkness through slits along the windows in the wall. The pillow nestled Arturo¡¯s head comfortably, and the blanket covering him was soft and well-stuffed with cotton. ¡­a blanket and pillow? This wasn¡¯t Arturo¡¯s tent, where was he?


    The greeting from the Mother seemed to hang in his mind like she was waiting for a response. That was ridiculous, she never reacted to any responses. People talked about their daily greetings, some with annoyance and others with a religious fervor. No one ever talked about having a conversation with the woman. Woman? Was the god a woman? No¡­ No, his thoughts were drifting. He was in a daze. His head was a cloud, and his concentration a wisp whisked in the wind.


    A clean shirt draped across his chest, and loose linens clung to his legs where they had made him sweat in his sleep. Familiar walls and decor comforted his gaze and pacified his worries. It all graced his body with comfort, and the home¡¯s stucco and mud insulated a cool stillness from the angry heat of the summer sun. He was in his home. Alone, again. Arturo flexed his hands. They weren¡¯t that painful, how odd. He typically tried to have a relaxed and carefree attitude, but he was far beyond that. Right now, he wouldn¡¯t react if the Father himself strode through the door. He seemed to remember painting his tent, but that couldn¡¯t be right.


    A hammer struck his chest, and his breathing seized and constricted his throat. Realization. Remembrance. The day before he punched a puma and it exploded.


    Memories rampaged in his mind. The injured sheep, the run through the grass, the standoff in the campsite¡­ and the mauling. Arturo flung his blankets off him and clutched at his chest, phantom claws raking gaping canyons in his flesh. His chest heaved with panic and a whining echo deafened him. And his chest was hardly scratched at all. It was not the day after. Never mind it taking three days to reach the pueblo from the campsite, Arturo must have been asleep for weeks for those injuries to heal if he could have healed at all.


    He shouldn''t have healed at all. He should be dead.


    The ache began in his hands then. Not the splitting and bursting wrench he¡¯d felt at the end of his fight with the puma, nor some other haunting wound opened by tooth or claw. It was the familiar ache. A soft frustration cradled his heart along with it, a tightness he would not accept to be anger. Arturo could count on his quivering, useless fingers the times he¡¯d woken without his first thought on the pain. It always popped up a few minutes into the day, resilient as he wished he could be. Yet, he was alive. To be resilient. How was he alive?


    Where was Barto?


    Arturo¡¯s breath flowed free as he sat up in his bed and shambled over to the covered windows, tired limbs protesting, throbbing feet scolding. Thin, wooden bars stretched across small openings in the packed mud walls to block some of the sun and retain moisture in the room. It was possible to see through at the right angle, and Arturo crouched into a comfortable stance, as comfortable as he could be standing, to view the people mulling about outside. He brought his eyes up to the slits and pressed his chin forward to the wood to rest it there. Aromas of baking air and mud and pan dulce greeted his nose, a smell of home. By the Father¡¯s good graces, Barto was walking right up to his door at that very moment looking very much the same grumpy fart as he always did. Arturo felt a fool at his worry over Barto, the man had to be immortal, or the tequila would have taken him long, long ago.


    Gnarled hands rocked against the door, and it swung in on worn wooden hinges, dust swept into the air. Arturo might be a good shepherd and a well-liked friend, but he could probably do better with cleaning his home. His parents¡¯ home. Barto swung the door shut behind him and threw down a heavy, leather satchel on the table across the room. Head kept low, the grump grumbled to himself, unintelligible and low, the rasp of his voice an echo of the door sweeping the dust. Barto turned and met Arturo¡¯s eyes then turned to open the satchel. The man froze. Like a child fearing the scolding of a fuming abuela, Barto turned with a slow horror.


    ¡°Buenos di?as, Barto,¡± Arturo greeted him.


    ¡°Chingada madre?!¡± The curse was muted by the thick walls, and the old man stumbled over his feet and fell to the ground, cursing further as he rubbed his back and stood again.


    ¡°WHAT? What? What did I do?¡±


    ¡°How in all of the Parents¡¯ good green land and by every shameful whore in the Capital are you awake? I didn¡¯t think you were hardly alive, puto!¡±


    Arturo glanced around and touched over his body and chest. ¡°Barto, my chest is practically healed. It must have been at least a few weeks, right? No soy medico, pero¡­ I didn¡¯t see how bad it was, but it couldn¡¯t¡­¡± Arturo studied Barto¡¯s awestruck face. He prodded forward, ¡°I thought Valeria or Olina were feeding me, or something.¡±


    ¡°Three days, amigo.¡±


    A dog barked outside.


    ¡°Que?¡±


    ¡°Three. Days. Arturo,¡± the man strained out his words. The dog, scrappy and of medium build, barked again, and Barto cursed out at the mutt.


    Heart dropping into his stomach like a stone in a landslide, Arturo looked back down at his chest. Light, red scratches scabbed over a crisscrossed pattern all over his torso. ¡°But, my chest, sen?or.¡± He lowered the blanket. Barto¡¯s eyes swelled even further, and he swayed as if he might faint. Sweat dripped down peaks and spotted valleys in the old man¡¯s forehead, but he held himself together.


    ¡°I dragged you into town in the height of the night. Couldn¡¯t have been earlier than the Parents¡¯ hour,¡± Barto breathed out the words. Shaking arms and unsteady feet, he pointed at Arturo¡¯s chest, outstretched finger shaking even more. ¡°I couldn¡¯t bring myself to look under the bandages. The blood. Where are the cuts, nin?o? Where¡¯s the blood?¡±


    ¡°I- I- I just woke-¡± Disbelief stole Arturo¡¯s words, air stuck in his throat. ¡°I just woke up, amigo. I haven¡¯t seen anyone,¡± he pleaded. Eyes wide like staring down a monster, Barto was tense, face distrusting. Arturo pushed on, ¡°I woke up. I got out of bed,¡± he took a deep breath to sink the panic shifting just beneath the surface, ¡°And, I walked over to the window and saw you coming.¡± Arturo found some feigned confidence. ¡°That is it.¡±


    ¡°You killed that cat, too.¡±


    Events of his last waking moments, realizations of his miraculous healing, his unknown helper, hooked into his shoulders and drug them inward like a scorned child. ¡°My hand did something. I didn¡¯t mean to do it.¡±


    ¡°You''ve been lying about having no brother? No sister? Would¡¯ve been hard to miss another towering pendejo lumbering about this pueblo.¡±


    ¡°A sibling?!¡± Rage took him. Barto knew not to speak of family. He knew and he did it and he did it when Arturo was already so vulnerable. Not even Valeria spoke of it. ¡°My parents had me then died in a year. You people would¡¯ve remembered another one of us crying in this home.¡± Flame and heat and screaming and pain, searing pain, inundated Arturo¡¯s skin and muscle. Another of those phantom wounds. It passed. ¡°I don¡¯t have a sibling. And the only father I¡¯ve known is a sour viejo,¡± he spat the last words.


    Barto¡¯s eyes shrank in his skull, fearing then to disheartened. ¡°This sour viejo drug you back to your home while you died. And he could do nothing.¡± Barto sighed. ¡°Lo siento, Arturo. I¡¯ve just never seen something like that, except¡­¡± Except from a Storm. The blessed twins of La Terra. The old man, back bent more than normal, turned to leave, and he waved an absent hand at the satchel on the table. ¡°Some fruit and cafe?. There¡¯s water in the cistern on the roof. Ministry¡¯s been in the pueblo, distributing again.¡± He pulled open the door and stopped before he was in the full summer sun again. ¡°I don¡¯t know how you did it. But thank you for killing that beast. You saved our lives.¡±


    Arturo jerked his head, ¡°Por su puesto.¡± He didn¡¯t feel happy for killing that beast.


    Barto pursed his lips and nodded back, ¡°I¡¯ll find Valeria for you.¡±


    ¡°Graci?as.¡±


    ¡°Que? paso?? Arturo, you have to be more careful out there!¡± Valeria fretted over his every scratch and blemish, most he took with him before the confrontation with the puma, but his novi?a looked past those things. Love blinds, a curse and blessing.


    ¡°I only fell through some brambles and old grass. The really tall stuff is sharp. The actual hurt was my ankle. That¡¯s why Barto got me back here. Can¡¯t walk, can¡¯t shepherd.¡± Arturo brushed another of her prying hands away and looked her in her eyes with a flat stare. ¡°Are you done? I¡¯m ok, I promise. I carry worse pains with me than these anyway.¡± In truth, her touches were less than delicate and were hurting more than helping.


    ¡°Fine, fine. I¡¯m sorry I love you and care for you.¡± She spun and brushed his hands away now. ¡°No, you don¡¯t need my help. Big shepherd man can take care of himself.¡±


    ¡°I can take care of myself, mi? amor, but I really appreciate it when you do it too,¡± he pleaded. Not a real plea, he knew how to get her back to her previous mood. The anger of this woman was fleeting most times, and the other times Arturo just closed himself off and withered the storm.


    Valeria twisted back around quickly and flung herself onto him. Dark hair, thick and so slightly frayed from the heat, and honey brown eyes washed over his pains, foreign and familiar. Knowledge of the true events of his injuries would only hurt her. So, his ankle was sprained. With his stumbling, stubborn, and strained legs, Arturo had to avoid a limp when he walked all the time. For now, he could embrace it.


    Valeria turned her nose up at the satchel. ¡°Do you feel up to getting some food from Olina¡¯s? The Ministry¡¯s food isn¡¯t the most appetizing.¡± Preserved chiles, fruits, and vegetables in jars packed with vinegar and dried spices clanked on the counter as Valeria shifted through the supplies the Ministry brought the pueblo. The government¡¯s outreach was well-received out in the grasslands with food not always abundant, and water even less so. She uncovered dried beef caked with drier spices and a liberal layer of salt. There were a few fresh limes. She grabbed those. ¡°Not a total disgrace.¡±


    The dried beef dusted the tabletop with its seasonings as Arturo lifted it and took a bite. He¡¯d realized how hungry he¡¯d been once Barto left, but he was trying to be polite and wait until his novi?a indicated she was ready to eat. ¡°You know, when we¡¯re married, with our own house, we¡¯ll have to keep some preserved stuff.¡±Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°We will eat fresh food.¡±


    ¡°And in the winters? Or if there is drought?¡±


    ¡°The Ministry will provide. The Parents will provide.¡±


    Arturo snorted and passed his hand over the jars of pickles with grandiosity, ¡°They have provided, amo?r.¡±


    Valeria rolled her eyes at him, ¡°They¡¯ll have better stuff next time. Stop eating that and let Olina feed you.¡±


    Arturo shook his head, chewing the tough meat. No use in arguing this with her. He wrapped the beef back in its cloth and returned it to the satchel. He would eat it later. Salt was just such a tantalizing flavor with the metallic meat. Chapulines might be a better savory snack, but that was up for a debate with Miguel. He was rather portly, in mind and body, and he knew how to eat. Arturo loved him for it. They would eat their fill and more when they traveled to the Capital. A desire to bring that up with Valeria rose and died. She was not going to be attending this year and had made her disappointment in his travel plans known.


    Raucous laughter, goats and sheep bleating, the clopping and creaking of horse-drawn wagons, the hawks of vendedores, and the general bustle of his little, busy pueblo met Arturo¡¯s senses as he stepped into the street. The locals knew each other here, but in this season, no one did. Most of this mass of sweating bodies were from out-of-town, from the neighboring pueblos with similar economies trading in wool and dye and pottery, or fishermen with their carts of dried and pickled wares. Hard to get fresh things out to the middle of the grasslands. Only the Capital got fresh saltwater fish from the port towns with their Storm-powered rails.


    Valeria dragged him through the crowd, head only coming to his lower chest, arm extended out behind her like a swordsman fighting those they passed for her position next to him. They had gotten used to the height difference, and the truth was no woman in the pueblo compared to Arturo¡¯s height in any greater capacity. Hardly any man did either.


    A leather sombrero, his father¡¯s, blocked his eyes from the sun. Arturo kept it tucked away most of the time. Best not to remind himself of his loss, but Barto brought it up today, so Arturo couldn¡¯t find a reason not to wear it. His feet were bound with extra wool making steps only kiss him with agony. Valeria looked back at him and smiled. They rounded a corner and came to the pueblo center.


    People of all varieties populated this space. Their clothes didn¡¯t speak of any great affluence, but their smiles and friends spoke of riches all the greater. Many women wore rough skirts and blouses of tan, woven wool, and the men wore rough shirts and pants. Arturo supposed the true variety was in the headwear. Bandanas soaked up sweat and wide hats blocked the sun. Their different colors and materials caught the light in dazzling ways. Whites and bright reds and vivid blues and greens. Select women wore stark white dresses with red frill and geometric designs of black and blue on the bottom of the skirt. They grabbed the large, open skirts and twisted their hips and shook the fabric in arcs like a bird¡¯s wings flapping, then back and forth, and men and women cheered and danced with them to the guitar and trumpet blaring from the viejos seated on barrels behind the fun. From his height over most of them, these people seemed to make up a grassland of their own. Swaying one way, then the other. He was happy to notice these little things of so much life.


    Shouting overtook the buzz of the crowd, an awfully familiar voice. Barto was arguing with one of the visiting merchants. At least the day was gaining some normality back from the morning. Arturo leaned on Valeria, feigning his injured ankle like a true thespian, and they chuckled together at the exchange. The merchant¡¯s nose was turned up at the angry old man. Argument dwindling, Barto¡¯s rage building, the merchant spat at the ground and drove his mule on, bisecting the crowd. ¡°Culo,¡± Barto called after the hifalutin merchant.


    Without turning, the man called back, ¡°My, you are an observant one!¡± Barto, aghast, turned and limped with angry determination at the merchant, shaking his fist and screaming obscenities. The mule driver did not turn around.


    Sighing and shaking their heads, Arturo and Valeria turned their attention to the tavern on the north side of the center. The sun was over their heads now, the beating heat making it through even the thick leather of the sombrero. ¡°Let¡¯s get inside,¡± Arturo suggested. Valeria nodded.


    ¡°Puta, you couldn¡¯t hit the wall with the dice if you tried, ha!¡±


    ¡°Olina! Frijoles y tortillas, por favor!¡±


    ¡°Can we get some more beer?¡±


    ¡°What are you even aiming at?¡±


    Men and women laughed and ate. Two men drunkenly shoved at each other over a game of throwing dice. People shouted their orders and cried out their joys. Arturo smiled and walked to the main bar.


    ¡°Hola Arturo! Que? quieres toma?r?!¡± Olina asked him over her shoulder as she appeared to pour more drinks at once than Arturo had drank in his entire life. The tavern owner, and its barkeep, was a woman of large, rotund proportions. Fat and happy in her own way and louder than any man in the pueblo, Olina was the life of her bar and the people in it, and her food was second to none. ¡°Ay, keep your cerveza on the coasters, pendejo!¡± She flung a sandal at a drunken man in the corner making himself a bit too comfortable for her taste. Her hospitality, however, was third in the pueblo¡­ out of three. ¡°Perdon, Arturo! Tell me what you want to drink now, or you get nothing!¡±


    ¡°Just some cafe? and whatever is freshest to eat, por favor. Before you threaten to starve me too,¡± he smirked at the barkeep. Valeria said she wanted the same. The crowd shouted and blustered and drank much to the annoyance of passersby on the street outside. An old man howled an older hymn, more of a dying sheep than a professional singer, but his pickings with the guitar were passable. Empty glasses of mezcal and spent limes paid for by the serenaded crowd littered the unoccupied stool beside him all the same. Quite early in the day to be drinking such spirits. As Olina moved to the kitchen, Arturo hailed her with another order, ¡°Some mezcal, too! Reposado!¡± Olina flicked her hand in the air in acknowledgement. Quite early wasn¡¯t too early.


    ¡°You really shouldn¡¯t after getting hurt like that,¡± Valeria hissed. She had no idea. She continued, ¡°Better be good stuff, at least.¡± Venom could have dripped from her lips with that tone and look she gave him.


    ¡°It will heal any weakness left in me.¡± That¡¯s what Barto always said. ¡°Olina only serves the very best.¡± Not quite true, but she never served the very worst. Clanging and steam burst through the kitchen door, and Olina followed, a bull bucking and surging in a fury, to throw plates in front of Valeria and Arturo. A carafe of cafe? followed with a clink of a short glass and the splash of the strong spirit to cure Arturo. He took a deep breath of the food. ¡°Que? rico, Olina.¡±


    ¡°Muchas graci?as,¡± Valeria added, sweet as sugar cane now.


    Enfrijoladas graced Arturo¡¯s eyes, mouth, and stomach; a plate piled with tortillas softened in beef tallow with garlic and dipped and drowned in a thick sauce of frijoles. Olina liked to add eggs dropped into the tallow and fried until the whites were crisp along with a hot salsa roja, hellish in its hate of whoever deigned to eat such an unassuming creation. Arturo skipped breaths to fit more food in his mouth. He washed each bite down with the sweetened cafe?, and strength flowed back into him. When he was done, he sucked a lime and knocked down the mezcal.


    Cured.


    Coins clinked onto worn wood, wet with the splash and stains of drunk men and women and adolescents too stubborn or impatient to wait for a riper age to drink these drinks. Arturo took a deep breath of the stuffy tavern. Tobacco smoke had begun to fill the air with its dankness and musk, but he never fell into that vice. He was more for strong drinks and good food. Smoke was a nostalgic scent, regardless of the horrors that plagued him when it clawed its way down his throat. Arturo¡¯s father was a smoker. So, he liked it. They moved out of the tavern and back into the street, stomachs full of Olina¡¯s cooking.


    The crowd stilled outside.


    Valeria froze midstep.


    Arturo gasped.


    ¡°Mis hijos.¡±


    The Father spoke to the crowd. Likely to the whole of La Terra. Every man, woman, and child in the world froze and listened to his words. Only the men of the Ministry in hardened leather armor and its women in their white linen continued to move. They passed along bread and pickles and cheeses to people who took these things absently. The merchants were silent by their carts with all their bounty. The voice continued, not of the heart like the Mother, but of the mind.


    ¡°A Greatstorm is born.¡±


    The voice was a thousand boulders cast down a mountain, it was a creek meandering through the chill peaks of La Valle de Las Tormentas.


    ¡°Will you stay my hand?¡±


    The people of the world murmured, ¡°...no.¡±


    ¡°After we built the pyramids, Demons rose to take this world and its people. Brothers of the same faces, sisters of the same bodies.¡±


    It was a cool breeze on a moonlit night, and it was the strike of lightning burning flesh and killing men.


    ¡°Your Mother and Father gave you Storms. The twins. The bonds. And we cast away the abominations of our blessing.¡±


    An image formed in Arturo¡¯s mind. He closed his eyes, but it remained there in the dark behind his eyelids.


    ¡°We rid you of these demons, these destroyers. In our name.¡±


    Two babes cried in unison, arms stretched at the same angles, feet kicking in identical motion. Twins were a blessing, two children born so close, yet so distinct. The Storms, lightning and then thunder. A Bolt and their Thunderhead. But not a Greatstorm. Every year, one was born. Babies with the same face, the same body, identical in every way. Arturo¡¯s skin crawled. And yet¡­ This image was haunting him. Not the Greatstorm itself, but its fate. He closed his eyes harder, rubbed at them, shook his head. The vision remained unmoving. The crowd was unseeing for they saw this. The execution.


    ¡°I ask again. Shall any of my children stay my hand?¡±


    How could they? A living god speaks into their minds and eyes.


    ¡°Then, by our guidance, may La Terra del Sol and her people find peace another year.¡±


    The babes lifted into the air off a pedestal of rock, no swaddle to warm them. Black walls, smooth and glossy and reflecting, showed warping lights and the babies¡¯ backs as they wriggled at an invisible force. Arturo didn¡¯t want to see this. Someone in the crowd cheered. He felt a stab at his heart for the loss of innocence, for a hatred of the cheers, for the¡­ awareness¡­ that seemed to notice him.


    A force wrenched the babies back to the pedestal and dashed their heads upon the rock. Red and black walls, smooth and glossy and dripping. Arturo could see nothing else.


    ¡°Les amamos, mis hijos. May the Mother¡¯s farewell warm you tonight.¡±


    The voice faded, but the awareness stuck with Arturo a moment longer. He glanced around to not draw attention to himself, heart beating a wild rhythm in harmony with his fear, then it faded too. The people in the crowd erupted in cheers. They laughed and blew hard into their trumpets and went on about their business, as quick as the babes had died, smiling at the Ministry officials here to supply the pueblo. Arturo was nauseous. Insects buzzed about the swarming people, and the Ministry waved and passed their food. They told passersby of new accommodations in the Capital, of the news of La Terra, of fresh tariffs on certain luxury items. Purple dye was receiving an increased tax this year. Most of the people sighed and moved on, content with the supplies and news. People here lived content lives. Those babes had no lives to live. Valeria huffed at the news of the tariff. Her family¡¯s business was in dyeing wool, and it seemed their most valuable product wasn¡¯t going to sell too well this year.


    Trying to ignore his disgust, Arturo brushed Valeria¡¯s hair and tried to console her. ¡°Esta bien, mi amor. I can try to find some extra work in the Capital this time. Get some extra money,¡± he cooed at her as she turned from the helping hand of the government in their pueblo. The Ministry was well liked, to be sure, but everyone had some problems now and then. Valeria should recognize that.


    She looked up at him, a fresh tear in her eye, ¡°Si?.¡± Her family needed the medicine for her sick abuela this year. Maybe they wouldn¡¯t get it.


    Arturo said goodbye to his novia, clutching her close and telling her it would be ok. His wages could be stretched further, he could spend less in the Capital. Her mood was not improved by that suggestion, like she was souring on the idea of him leaving her for weeks. Pain relief and comfort were worth far more than anything he¡¯d buy at the Capital; a fact Valeria should understand very well by now. She would have to be ok with it.


    Grunts and low curses held a call and answer sing along with creaking wood during Arturo¡¯s attempt to get undressed and into bed. It hurt no more than normal. Pink scars stood where the puma savaged him three days prior. Just this morning they were still scratched and scabbed, but he hadn¡¯t noticed the new change until now, hadn¡¯t wanted to.


    An explosion of wind and sound tore the roof off his home, a rain of blood falling through the opening now. Teeth fell in with the warm splatter. Eyes. They tapped on the wood, thumped, and squelched on the hard-packed mud floor of his home. This was easier to watch than the execution. What had done this?


    He blinked his eyes, and his room was dry, roof intact. Arturo¡¯s hand throbbed. It was covered in blood, painted red, screaming at him. ¡°Que? pasa,¡± he asked himself. He wiped his hand on the sheets, but the blood grew thicker on his skin, wanted to stay with him, cling to him; and the sheets came away dry. That awareness caught him again. Strong. Solid. Steel. A sword pushed through his throat. Ears popping, sound rushing back into his own consciousness, Arturo jolted in his bed. The phantom eyes fled. Everything returned to normal, and his eyes drifted close. He hoped that ghost would not find him in his dreams.


    Buenas noches, mi hijo.

 Chapter 4

    Chapter 4


    Buenos dias, mi hijo.


    Aquiles eyes opened fast on a dark room. He hadn¡¯t lit the candle the night before. He bent up and made a quick turn to sit on the edge of his bed. A pair of slippers waited for him below his hanging feet. He pushed off the bed with a measured control and slid his left foot into the left slipper. Then, he slid his right foot into the other. His feet padded over to a curtain hanging on the wall. He placed his left hand on the left curtain and his right hand on the right curtain. He spread his arms, and the curtains split with a soft shifting of fabric. Moonlight cast itself into the room, lighting the sketches of sundials pinned to the walls.


    Swaths of shame washed through him, over him, weighing him down and trying to force him back to bed. Screaming for attention and respect in front of all those people, people he was supposed to lead, some that idolized him. Soreness in his nose had been a welcome distraction, but that was gone now. That was gone now? Aquiles brushed his fingers against the tender bridge of his nose, and found it was no longer tender. Breath filled his nostrils, poured into his lungs, and no petulant knives stabbed at his forehead. Two days and a broken nose was healed? He needed to find some clear water to get a good reflection of his face, those bruises around his eyes were brutally unflattering. He almost forgot his shame.


    He replaced his slippers, and he got dressed, boots laced tight, waist cord wrapped and secure. Shifty little feet shuffled through the hallway outside carrying gullible and quite annoying young minds about their days. Young Ones could be intrusive on one¡¯s personal space. They stunk too, more often than not, hygiene not yet a widely accepted practice at those ages. Many Children loved to take care of the Young Ones, perhaps Aquiles could leave those responsibilities to them. Perhaps he wasn¡¯t a man for kids. He found himself more settled thinking on his distastes. His quick-mending nose was still distracting. Squeezing and pulling on it, he determined the pain really was gone already. It would make for an easier day. Although, perhaps, it was not an ease he deserved. He stepped into the hallway.


    Dirt shifted in the air as the smaller and, some oddly shaped, monks bustled through the cramped hallways. Aquiles would rather not breathe it, but he couldn¡¯t hold his breath until he got to the Main Square. He would work on that. Inkpot and reed in hand, disgust at the foot-dirt in his mouth, relief at an open schedule for his day, Aquiles marched to the peak of the pyramid and its garden to sketch the sundial for his astronomy paper. An excuse more than a necessity. Many sketches of the same sundial were pinned to his wall. Aquiles was fond of the astronomical instruments. They were ingenious.


    Stone steps, thank the Father¡¯s graces and the Mother¡¯s blessings for the absence of dirt, carried Aquiles up the corners of the pyramid three hundred paces to its peak. The steps were deep and short. Taking two at a time stretched his legs too far, despite their length and lankiness, but one step was awkward. This was by far the most irritating thing about making this small trip. The lips of a cracked step caught on the tip of his boot, and Aquiles stumbled. ¡°Pinch-¡± He caught himself before cursing in front of a pair of young girls descending the stairs. ¡°Perdon,¡± he grunted through tight lips and a stiff jaw.


    Sunlight started to spill over the peaks of the valley to the east; humid air made thick, sticky, and cloying clutched at the thick monk robes Aquiles was forced to wear, and the heat of the sunrise started to bake and bathe the valley, uncaring, indifferent. Some might attribute the discomfort to some unseen malice. It was but another summer day. There had been many more, hotter days, and many more would pass in the years to come. People were malice. Not the weather. So, which had the monks been like with their dismissals of him, of his station? The weather? Or was it human nature even the holy couldn¡¯t escape?


    Aquiles was being dramatic. Horacio might be right about him.


    The garden of the Monastery was a tool to learn and teach for the botanists and biologists of the religious and intellectual center of La Terra. Lush leaves of banana plants hung like curtains over the exit from the stone pyramid, almost a cliche? entrance to the supple susurration of insect clicks and chirps and whispering monks tending to their crops and study. Aquiles was torn on this place, as it was quite beautiful. Yet, it was terribly dirty. He wiped the sweat so eager to wet his brow the instant he made a footfall in the rich soil of the garden. Leaf and fertilizer crunched under his feet. Aquiles shivered and kept his eyes on the pretty fruits and flowers.


    Foot paths, closer yet to untended land, led away from the stone archway of the pyramid in three meandering directions. Each took its inhabitants on a lazy stroll and plopped them at a landing to view the sprawl of the Capital between the Monastery and the distant center of the government in the Ministry. It was quite a view, to be sure, but Aquiles didn¡¯t care for that right now. Right now, he braved the dirt to get a calming sketch of the intricate sundial at the center of the garden. He took a single step down the central path before being set upon like an unaware stag surrounded by a group of quiet hunters withs nasty bows.


    ¡°Hola, Aquiles!¡±


    Aquiles sighed and lowered his head, ¡°Hola, Emilia.¡± The upbeat and bubbly girl from his lectures, and another recently promoted Child of the Parents, smiled up at him, lips nearly splitting her ears in two. She literally bounced with excitement while trying to stand still. Aquiles tried to explain his purpose, ¡°I¡¯m working on the paper for our astrono-¡±


    ¡°C¨®mo est¨¢s?!¡± She trampled forward. Aquiles wasn¡¯t sure she even heard him begin to speak. Otherwise, she would have stood there bouncing and listened to him for hours. It was quite the annoyance.


    ¡°Bien,¡± he responded flatly, ¡°I¡¯m working on the paper for Profesora Lola, so if you wouldn¡¯t mind¡­¡± Aquiles tried to slip past the buzzing girl, but she turned and followed him down the path. Emilia had to crane her head to look at him, midnight hair strapped and wrangled back to form a bun and round, dark cheeks carved into that perpetual smile. Men would likely think her attractive, proportioned well for a woman, but she would do terribly in a fight. Aquiles realized just how private the garden path was surrounded by greenery, sound sealed in by the stalks and stems.


    ¡°I already finished it! You can use mine!¡± Emilia nearly jumped and scraped her head on the overhanging foliage with each word. ¡°I¡¯ll just write another for myself!¡±


    ¡°Emilia, por favor. I can write my own. Keep yours,¡± his tone was too annoyed and off-putting, even to Aquiles. Emilia¡¯s bouncing dampened a bit. Feeling too much like the shriveled old puta he often complained to himself about, Aquiles tried repairing her mood, ¡°Though, I¡¯m sure it¡¯s fantastic. I¡¯d love to read it.¡± He added that smile that made the Young Ones cringe. Emilia seemed to melt under it, eyes going wider somehow, mouth dropping open to gasp. What an odd girl.


    ¡°YO TAMBIEN! I read yours and you read mine!¡±


    ¡°Que? bien,¡± Aquiles laughed nervously. He looked forward to that meeting as much as a fistful of shame from Horacio, or a conversation spent with Soc- Child Socorra. The conversation stalled, Emilia bouncing and Aquiles glancing around trying to hold the smile. Two elderly monks approached from further along the path.


    ¡°Ok, great! I got to run and talk to these two beautiful young ladies. Have fun in the garden, Aquiles!¡± Emilia said, cutting the silence, then took off, disappearing and reappearing next to the Children.


    ¡°Que? bien,¡± Aquiles reiterated to himself, now exasperated. He went roundabout to the garden¡¯s center and stood at the sundial.


    A single shadow stretched over the sundial¡¯s face, shadow cast over thick stone pulled from the quarries to the east before the mountains became untamed and wild and unknown, a dark streak cut in the sunlight by a stark white shoulder blade of a bison. Aquiles was mesmerized. Craftsmanship unparalleled by any of the artesanos in El Mercado Rojo or in El Centro. The sundial was old, ancient. The bone was all but a fossil. Dancing beasts of all kinds, predator and prey, adorned the circular edge of the stone face of the sundial, a handspan thick. Bison, pumas, bats, butterflies, and the elusive jaguars. Dogs corralled sheep. An old life breathed in this stone; a life almost foreign to Aquiles. But the men in these carvings carried bow and arrow and spear, still hunted, still raised cattle, still farmed, still built in mud and stone. The people hadn¡¯t changed so much as the world around them.


    Reed and inkpot dried in strokes on his parchment, and another intricate sketch was added to his collection. Aquiles exhaled in satisfaction. The monks appreciated art and the craft of a creative and curious mind, but Aquiles had committed himself to a martial art for his life¡¯s work. He could present this sketch and his other drawings for the Children in the art halls. It would gain him nothing. Yet, this sketch was rather good. For this one, he went with a crosshatching and faded shadowing with the flat of some charcoal smeared into the ink. The color black could be used to an extreme and exquisite extent if a monk knew what to do with it. Aquiles would use one of the older renditions pinned to the walls in his room for the paper, and he would keep this one to himself.


    As he made his way back through the garden and onto the square spiral of the stairs inside the Monastery, Aquiles pondered the twenty-seven markings on the face of the sundial sketch he¡¯d made. They stood out in the isometric view he¡¯d chosen for this version. The shadow fell between the seventh and eighth hours in the drawing. Had those markings by the ancient people guided their alphabet, or had their language imposed a structure on their measure of a day¡¯s hours? Not an impactful or useful thought, but Aquiles could spare the time.


    Something pulled Aquiles from his trance, and he looked up from his shambling feet and to the figure with knives in its hands at the next landing. It stood in the dark, in a shadow of its own. Skin prickling, breath increasing, heart thumping, sword absent. Who would attack him with knives in the dark? Child Horacio took a step forward and proffered a roll of pa?n, a tab of butter, and a butter knife. Aquiles chided himself behind a mask of happy surprise.


    ¡°Arm of Us, I was informed by an excited mouse of a girl you would be coming from the gardens. Are you familiar with her?¡±


    Aquiles sighed, ¡°All too.¡±


    ¡°Well, I am happy to find you where I expected you. Now, come with me,¡± Horacio spoke with no inflection or sign of actual emotion. He turned and moved down the stairs then pointed over his shoulder at the food now in Aquiles¡¯ hands. ¡°Eat it. Child Socorra had some tasks for you.¡±


    ¡°Que? bien,¡± Aquiles practically exploded with excitement. His molars creaked and nearly cracked under the pressure with which he clenched his jaw. How good. What fun.


    ¡°Don¡¯t bother with an attempt to hide your annoyance. You want respect, verdad? Maybe this will earn you a thimble full,¡± the old fool chuckled. No, this Child was a man of honor and intelligence Aquiles could only hope to achieve. His temper was being sorely tested. A mouthful of dry pa?n and fat only worsened it. Horacio tossed a vial of clear liquid over his shoulder. Aquiles reached out a practiced hand and snagged it from the air. The glass fit easily in his palm. It was stoppered with a small cork and a thin wrap of leather.


    ¡°What is this for?¡±


    ¡°Keep it on you.¡±


    ¡°Yes Child, but what is-¡±


    ¡°Keep. It. On. You,¡± Horacio emphasized each word as he took step after step down the stairs. His short legs were likely comfortable with the step height, while Aquiles almost skipped down the stairs made for little monks. ¡°Your nose looks much better. You¡¯re not even bruised anymore. Must have not been broken after all.¡±


    Aquiles touched his nose again and didn¡¯t respond. Horacio¡¯s thin shoulders protruded even from the thick robes weighing him down, spastic hair stuck out and unmoving with the walk down. Aquiles could see the Child¡¯s eyebrows from behind. Weren¡¯t their barbers on the premises? Aquiles kept himself clean shaven and short-haired with a sharp knife.


    They made their way past gaggles of Young Ones, prostrate and shaking at the sight of the most famous and infamous monks currently residing in the pyramid. Aquiles was the clear candidate for the most famous, and Horacio gained his notoriety with an unending series of unusual and impossible punishments. Activities like sweeping the dirt out of the dirt hallways or rearranging the equipment and ornaments in the circular training ground by intervals of three hundred and sixty degree rotations.


    Socorra awaited them in the Child¡¯s mess hall. ¡°Mira, mira! The Arm of Us graces our hall brothers and sisters!¡± Socorra jumped onto a wooden table with six silent Children sitting around it on the worn benches. The table wobbled, and their glasses clattered to the ground. Each of their gazes were pulled from staring daggers at Aquiles to stab Socorra. She didn¡¯t notice or didn¡¯t care. More monks sat at other tables and watched.


    ¡°That boy will not be a liaison to the gods,¡± a Child with a smooth face and a squeal of a voice announced.


    ¡°He cannot be allowed to speak to the Parents, throwing tantrums like a little boy!¡± This announcement from a man with a scarred face but an equally squealing voice. They looked to be close in age and resemblance. Maybe Aquiles just grouped these bothers together.


    He stopped to stand behind Child Horacio. ¡°I just got here,¡± Aquiles muttered under his breath. Yet, the words fell on the ears of a bat.


    Horacio turned to Aquiles and spoke at a revealing full volume, ¡°News travels fast.¡± Yes, pushed along by a wizened old sword master.


    ¡°Accusations, faster still!¡± Socorra jumped off the table and slipped on one of the displaced glasses. Her feet went out to the side, and she slammed into the ground. None of the Children reacted. Aquiles rushed over to help. Socorra sprung to her feet and spun around him to slap his neck. ¡°Twice in a row, pendejo.¡±


    Aquiles held his tongue. ¡°Yes, Child Socorra.¡± What was he supposed to do? Stop and laugh? That¡¯s probably what Socorra would have done.


    ¡°Oh relax, boy. This temper is what¡¯s landing you on a sizzling plancha today. Do you think the Parents are reasonable conversationalists? They¡¯re gods. Son dioses, verdad?¡± Socorra leaned in with raised eyebrows and a knowing grin, more of a grimace.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Si?.¡±


    ¡°And we¡¯re going to show this miserable group of culos that you can handle yourself in all sorts of stressful situations. Aren¡¯t we?¡± She nudged his shoulder. Horacio shuffled toward the food set on a nearby table.


    ¡°Si??¡±


    ¡°The Children of the Monastery are not fond of your little outbursts. So, I¡¯m going to personally train and mature you to assure you¡¯re ready for the job as the Arm of the Monastery.¡± Shouldn¡¯t personal training have been her plan from the beginning. Socorra didn¡¯t seem to think so. ¡°Then, we can get on with our lives! And you can deal with the angry old man,¡± Socorra was leaning against him now, an uncomfortable proximity Aquiles didn¡¯t know how to comprehend. She smelled¡­ old. Like queso blanco left in a cupboard for a hundred years, or however many years Socorra graced this good green land. Had she meant the Father by ¡®old man¡¯? She continued, ¡°And you can stop crying and yelling at sad wrinkled monks.¡±


    ¡°Que??¡± Horacio coughed up a bite of carnitas and tortillas.


    ¡°Callate?,¡± Socorra shooed Horacio away.


    Reluctant and recalcitrant, Aquiles stared after Child Socorra as she hobbled away, apparently done with the conversation, and with a disregard to the Children left dumbstruck at the twists and turns a conversation with the legacy Arm of the Monastery could put a person through. Also the slaps. Thin hands as hard as stone and as sharp as swords nudged Aquiles after the hag. He turned his head to the side to see Horacio returned to where he stood prior to stuffing his face, shooing Aquiles along.


    ¡°Don¡¯t forget that vial,¡± the old man sang with an edge of knowing and an air of condescension, both of which made Aquiles rather uncomfortable. No, he could handle whatever ridiculousness this was. Child Socorra never turned to see if he followed. Arrogant puta. Like he¡¯d just follow her as a stray pup, no stable or cover to sleep under, no generous little girl to throw stale food or pour leftover bones from soup-making onto the ground. Aquiles scowled.


    Then he followed.


    After a few familiar turns, Aquiles was certain they made their way to the training grounds. Socorra was going to literally be training him? Her contributions to the training of monks in martial arts was perceived by her absences more than her input. Historically, Arms would rotate among dedications and view and attend to the needs of the monks of the Monastery, but Socorra was not that kind of Arm. She preferred community outreach and more communication with the Father. Unorthodox and unnerving. The Monastery should do more as an example than a helping hand in the lives of the people. Leave the dealings with country folk to the Ministry. Aquiles would change things back to how they were meant to be. Never mind Socorra¡¯s success with her methods, they were just a fluke, a bug in the system. Aquiles wondered about the epistemology of that eccentric expression.


    They arrived at the ready room, and the air felt electric. Muffled booms shook dust from the stone of the stairway above. A surging worry formed a pit in his stomach, and Aquiles came to the obvious conclusion. The Storms were training. His heart made company with the pit in his stomach. Socorra glanced over her shoulder with a smirk as Aquiles tried to keep his face straight, but he felt the anxiety behind his eyes press into his forehead and face and quicken his heart. Simple swordsmen couldn¡¯t spar Bolts and Thunderheads! Well, Aquiles was more of a master than a simple swordsman, yet the point stood. These twins would blast him across the Capital and back before he had time to blink.


    ¡°Come now, young Arm,¡± Socorra mocked him, ¡°You¡¯re not scared of a little wind, are you?¡±


    An odd gulping sound found its way out of his mouth. Aquiles cleared his throat, and it stopped. ¡°What they do is a bit more forceful than wind, Child Socorra.¡±


    The Arm pondered on his assessment and replied, ¡°Yes, it is. Disrobe. They don¡¯t have much time left in their training.¡± Blunt as ever. ¡°And they really aren¡¯t supposed to interact with the rest of you. Highly blessed and all that.¡± Socorra hesitated and hung her head. ¡°Yes, by the Parents¡¯ guidance.¡± Was she talking to someone?


    Eyes bored into Aquiles'' back, and he spun around. No one else stood in the ready room. His hackles rose, an exposed nerve of unwanted attention. Something was there.


    ¡°I said disrobe.¡± Socorra stalked up the ramp to the training grounds and out of sight.


    Aquiles stood by himself, hopefully by himself, and shivered as the still air swirled about him removing the robe and moving to place it on his regular hanger. The hanger was taken. All the Childrens¡¯ were taken, even some of the lower Young Ones¡¯. More Storms inhabited the Monastery than he previously thought. Aquiles let the robes fall to the floor, the fleeting worry of dust and grime dirtying the garment hardly registering as his gaze fell on the ramp and the dancing shadows that played there. His hand gripped the vial Horacio gave him. None of the familiar ring of metal, none of the rhythmic scraping of feet. Dust drifted from the ceiling at another distant boom. It smelled like rain.


    Summer sun and a thick, wet air ripped him back into reality, and Aquiles stepped into the circle of the training grounds. Two dozen men and women were circling around Socorra. They watched him. Two bare chested brothers stood apart from the group, but they began walking to join the rest, clear vials of liquid raised to their lips, gulping down the contents, vials identical to the one Aquiles held firmly in his hand now.


    ¡°Aquiles,¡± Child Socorra called from the center of the Storms, truly the Arm of the Monastery with her air of authority outshining all amongst a group of so much power, ¡°no need for a sword today.¡± Her lip curled. ¡°Or a spoon.¡± The group was silent. He didn¡¯t think his heart could drop past his stomach to his feet, but he felt it down there between his toes. ¡°Drink the ichor.¡±


    One of the brothers late to the group gestured with a dramatic flair at the vial in Aquiles¡¯ own, the first movement in the crowd of twins. ¡°She said to drink it.¡± The first sound. Some of the resemblances in the twins were hardly noticeable. Brother and sister, rather than the same sex. Some were uncanny to the point of verging on identical. Aquiles shivered. Greatstorms could not make this group company today, or ever, killed at birth as they were. He should stop acting like such a scared child. Shoulders squared and legs firm, Aquiles unstopped the vial and drank it.


    He convulsed at the texture of the thick liquid. It was a sickeningly sweet slime sliding down his throat. When he finally got it down, he gagged. The brothers chuckled, one much hairier than the other, chest sweaty and as thick around as a tree. They were squat men, coming only up to Aquiles¡¯ sternum, but they probably both outweighed him. One sneered at his reaction. ¡°Hey, I like it. Makes you strong,¡± the other brother smiled and drank the rest of his slime.


    ¡°The Parents¡¯ nectar,¡± sneer face growled. ¡°That¡¯ll give you plenty of energy, boy. You don¡¯t have the blessings to spend it.¡± The man held his hand up. Sparks of electricity jumped between his fingers.


    ¡°I was going to have you spar with the girls,¡± Socorra gestured to a pair of sisters whose combined age was certainly less than Aquiles¡¯ own, ¡°but I think Jorge and Emiliano will do nicely.¡± Aquiles jerked his hopeful head from the girls back to lightning fingers, heart ten paces into the stone below his feet now. Que? mierda.


    ¡°I¡¯m Emiliano!¡± The jovial brother pronounced. The hairy one cracked his neck and fingers and back. Really quite unnecessary, Aquiles would obviously lose this fight. Emiliano continued, ¡°Well, except for him.¡± He pointed at a toddler. The toddler had an empty vial of ooze next to him. It hiccupped, and a shockwave shot from its open, drooling mouth and blasted over a training dummy made of wood, the arms and legs shattering against the stone of the pyramid. ¡°Se llama Emiliano, tambien.¡±


    ¡°Wonderful,¡± Aquiles gasped, the word almost catching in his throat.


    Socorra meant to teach him patience it seemed. Perhaps a little humility? He¡¯d be the most humble Child the Monastery had ever seen. She stalked away from the Storms and toward Aquiles, and they all receded to the walls, except for Emiliano and his properly growling twin brother. She tossed him a small cloth bag, ¡°Best put these in, I¡¯d prefer to treat bangs and burns without burst eardrums.¡± He fumbled the catch, scrambling to pick the bag up in case Socorra decided to slap him again with his attention averted.


    The bag felt light. He opened it and found balls of bleached cotton and wool. The wool would prove itchy, so Aquiles chose the cotton and stuffed it into his ears with shaking hands. The sun beat down on them, and Child Socorra walked right past him to take up a seat where the weapons masters would watch Children train. Were the Storms considered Children too? Or an entire league of their own? Flashing light bit into Aquiles¡¯ eyes as Jorge stepped forward, brandishing hands inundated with crackling electricity, arcs churning, jumping to the ground for an instant, weeds crawling to the sunlight through layers of stone to be smote by the Bolt. Yes, quite the league of their own.


    Socorra held up a hand, ¡°Tu hermano primero, Jorge.¡± The Bolt stopped his trudge of death, and the Thunderhead scrambled forward to take instruction from Socorra. ¡°Emiliano, throw some light strikes. I just want to see him move.¡± She seemed to ignore Aquiles now, and watched Emiliano walk forward to take a place opposite Aquiles. The bystanders gathered in a circle at the center of the grounds. Some played with lightning in their hands, others blasted small craters in the dirt with their index fingers.


    Aquiles took up a stance for fighting hand-to-hand at the center of the circle. Emiliano followed and stood sideways, right shoulder towards Aquiles¡¯ chest and seeming just as nervous. Breath forced to be slow and measured, the apprentice to the Arm of the Monastery studied a Thunderhead. The young man and his brother were both built like barrels, but this half of the Storm was lighter skinned and watched Aquiles with kind eyes. That friendly gaze waivered, and Emiliano spun with a backhand. He was much too far to make any contact with Aquiles, yet a shockwave burst forth to pound his chest and send him sprawling on the ground. The circle bowed out to encompass him, but it did not break. Adrenaline pumped in Aquiles¡¯ veins, he found his heart, and he got to his feet. Thunderhead a good fifteen paces away now, Aquiles had to close the distance to have any chance. That shockwave was almost channeled into a cone, extremities enough to stir up some wind but not to do any harm. He could dodge them.


    With a burst of his own, Aquiles sprinted forward, taking a shifting path to make contact with Emiliano. The Thunderhead jumped and spun, sending another shockwave towards Aquiles with a whirlwind of a kick, and again, it was a vague cone. Aquiles threw himself under, wind whipping at his skin, and slid to close the remaining distance. He pushed to his feet and thrust a closed fist, solid, steel, straight into Emiliano¡¯s now exposed stomach as the man regained his balance. Breath left Emiliano, and he curled over Aquiles¡¯ fist. The Arm moved to finish the fight with surprising ease, and struck down at Emiliano¡¯s back. Something caught Aquiles¡¯ open hand, then he was looking up at the clear blue sky, pebbles and a patch of dirt scraping at the back of his head. He regained his feet.


    ¡°It¡¯s about time you took advantage of that, Emiliano. Good job,¡± Socorra called from the masters¡¯ lookout. She finally seemed to notice Aquiles, ¡°Oh, Storms don¡¯t just shoot stuff from their hands and feet. Common misconception. They can, and should, use all that open space available,¡± she continued, attention turning back to Emiliano as she waved her hands to indicate her chest and back. ¡°Please, continue.¡±


    Well, Emiliano could use those shockwaves all he wanted, but he probably relied on them too much. Had to see where Aquiles was to do anything about it. Without hesitation, Aquiles reached into the loose dirt at his feet and flung it into the Thunderhead¡¯s line of sight, a light brown billowing cloud between them. Those small cones couldn¡¯t do anything now. Probably.


    A shockwave left from the whole of Emiliano¡¯s body and hurled itself at Aquiles in a wall of white condensed air. Dirt in the air knocked aside, and he stumbled but didn¡¯t fall. Must take a lot more power to make a big wave like that do any damage. Aquiles jumped forward and spun, heel connecting with Emiliano¡¯s jaw, and a Storm fell. Well, the Thunderhead fell. Aquiles felt triumphant, nonetheless.


    Several women rushed forward and cradled Emiliano, some even looking at Aquiles with a hint of deference. He wouldn¡¯t be so rash to call it respect. Though it probably was. Emiliano¡¯s eyes fluttered open, and he shook himself. ¡°Que? bueno, Aquiles!¡± He smiled and gave a thumbs up. ¡°You move like a puma!¡± Aquiles smirked to himself. He had been training in his agility lately. Must be showing. Whatever was he worried about before?


    ¡°Jorge, your turn.¡±


    Socorra had to interrupt the victory.


    Warmth and vigor flowed freely through Aquiles. This was a feeling past adrenaline. The Parents¡¯ nectar, Jorge had called it. Maybe there was some use to the stuff, despite its vile taste and how it clung to his throat as he drank it. Aquiles flexed his arms, extending his forearms at the elbow and letting his triceps burn, then he twisted at his waist and popped up and down on the balls of his feet. He would have to find some more of the ichor before his next bout with Child Horacio. See if he liked an unfair fight. Socorra watched him, suspicion in her eye. This wasn¡¯t going as she¡¯d hoped. Too bad. Aquiles would show them he deserved respect.


    ¡°Come now, Jorge. You can do better than your brother, right?¡± Aquiles taunted the man as he approached.


    Jorge clenched his jaw and spat. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t have done Emi like that, puto.¡±


    ¡°Whenever you feel like it, Jorge,¡± Socorra sighed and began the sparring match with an aloof wave.


    Jorge nodded and took up the same fighting stance as his brother. Aquiles fought to keep the smile from his face. What had these Storms been learning out here? They couldn¡¯t even switch up tactics while facing the same opponent. A strong gust of wind blew at Aquiles back, and he took a step forward.


    Heat and seizing pain pinned his foot to the earth the instant it contacted the ground. Jagged lines of light black and red burned into Aquiles¡¯ eye, the lightning bolt that hit him had blinked so quickly his eyes only registered the after image. His bluster faded with the imprint of his doom in this sparring match. ¡°Mierda.¡±


    Jorge spun forward in a flurry of furious far-reaching arcs. Some pinged the ground around Aquiles, a plume of dirt or a blackened spot on the stone where the Bolt¡¯s lightning struck. Many more hit Aquiles square. This fury was far from the voracious impact on his foot from the first hit, yet he was driven back to find some sort of cover from Jorge. This is what they¡¯d been learning.


    Aquiles tripped over himself as lightning and electricity jumped between him and the approaching Bolt. Respite in the rain, and then it continued again. He caught a glimpse of Jorge and noticed the man¡¯s skin was turning a furious red as if he were¡­ burning? The grimace on his face all but confirmed it. Socorra stood now in Aquiles¡¯ periphery as he crawled towards the edge of the circle. The lightning stopped. Gravel from a particularly strong arc that had burst apart the stone lay just at Aquiles¡¯ right hand. He grasped at it, body refusing to function, muscles spasming and heart palpitating. This couldn¡¯t be healthy.


    Footsteps behind him indicated Jorge approached even without his lightning. Maybe he¡¯d learned some actual hand-to-hand combat. Aquiles felt himself recovering from the onslaught. How, not odd, but rather¡­ encouraging. He¡¯d deal with the worried thoughts later. His foot kicked out desperately behind to collide with Jorge¡¯s shin. Roaring and burning and angrier than a bull in a market, Jorge surged forward and yanked Aquiles to his feet, hoisting him by his underarms, then the Bolt drove his shoulder into Aquiles stomach. Yet, Aquiles was comfortable here. Breath escaped him, and Aquiles drove out the remainder. His hands clambered to cinch shut around the back of Jorge¡¯s neck, and when he found his purchase, Aquiles let his momentum drive one foot back and twisted at his hips with all the strength not sapped by the electricity to throw his knee into Jorge¡¯s gut. The man crumpled. His skin gained a pallor.


    Gravel bit into Aquiles¡¯ hand, a trickle of warmth on his palm from a cut granted by the rocks. His arm and hands were seizing. He was looking back at the sky again. How had he gotten there? Lightning burned itself into his view of the world. Jorge loomed over him. Faintly, Aquiles could hear Socorra calling to take it easy as she rushed over. Heart beats thundered in his mind. The crowd of Storms just watched, apparently angry with Emiliano¡¯s defeat. Not very monk-like of them. Lightning crept up Jorge¡¯s arms again, skin blistering from the heat. Aquiles hadn¡¯t known the blessing could do that to the Storms. In retrospect, Emiliano¡¯s skin had turned red where he directed the shockwaves from. Painful blessings. Aquiles was drifting. His thumb found one of the little rocks. He absently flicked at it. The pebble soared up and plopped itself right into Jorge¡¯s eye. The Bolt yelled and clawed at his face, pebble apparently lodging itself rather well in his eyelid.


    Aquiles stood and swayed. Socorra reached them, hands outstretched toward Jorge. The infuriated man shoved her away and raised his hand. Rain and sparking fire lit the air, wrinkled fingertips grazed Aquiles¡¯ arm, and time slowed. Aquiles knew this one would hurt, or worse. The circle broke, slowly, knees lifting to chests to stop Jorge. Maybe they weren¡¯t that mad. Aquiles giggled. Oh well, it seemed he¡¯d lost this fight. He was nauseous. Either his mind was scrambled, or Aquiles just didn¡¯t care. Let Jorge strike him down here and now and allow his life to amount to nothing. He¡¯d done nothing. Nothing to lose.


    Light flashed. Heat built over Aquiles¡¯ pounding heart. It grew, and had grown, ravenous, threatening to take him. His muscles were locked tight, and the sky was white then black. He saw and heard nothing.


    Then, just as it had come, it left.


    Breath left him, and by instinct, he drove the rest out. Jorge lay flat on his back, smoke drifting up from smoldering chest hair, an acrid scent filling the training grounds. Guess one of the other Bolts hit Jorge before he could finish off Aquiles. How nice of them.


    Aquiles collapsed, and his head was caught by withered hands. A lightning storm of hair blocked the sky, and the most unnerving thing he¡¯d experienced the entire day swallowed his vision. The Child Socorra, smiling.


    He thought he heard her whisper, ¡°Finally.¡±


    Buenas noches, mi hijo.

 Chapter 5

    Chapter 5


    Buenos dias, mi hijo.


    Sun rays peaked through the blinds of the windows and courted the dust dancing in the air. Excitement burned through Arturo¡¯s chest and into his limbs, eclipsing the aches and agonies at home in his body, filling him with an energy to move and jump and run like a little kid. Today was the day Arturo left for the Capital. ¡°I¡¯m coming home, Mother,¡± he whispered to himself. He swung his legs off the bed and lunged for his pants and shirt. Pain? It hadn¡¯t crossed his mind. Though his feet spasmed and he nearly fell, his thoughts were in a far-off place.


    Soon. Soon he would have a break.


    A smile parted his mouth, and he laughed at his uncooperative fingers attempting to do up the buttons near his collar and the straps on his boots. He wore his good wool today, and the fabric almost caressed his skin. Fresh morning air drifted into his home. Sweet on the tongue and full in the chest. It was a good morning.


    Arturo stopped and felt shame. He glanced out the blinds to the waking town. Valeria was out there, an early riser, wishing he wouldn¡¯t leave. Wishing he could stay. It wasn¡¯t hope. A hope is for those who believe what they wish will come to pass, and Valeria knew her wish was a fantasy. Arturo would make this trip. He couldn¡¯t miss it. He felt the shame, but it wasn¡¯t going to stop him. Not with this. People relied on him so much, and he deserved a break. Still, the loneliness Valeria was feeling weighed on him. The blood pulsing between his fingers and in his palms seemed to boom in his ears.


    Home isn¡¯t supposed to be painless.


    This would be the last pilgrimage. Then his attention could focus solely on Valeria and starting their life together. Barto drank and rolled his sabanos tight. Arturo took his little trips. But habits can be broken. Everyone lived in pain, and he was not special.


    With his fresh clothes and boots, Arturo slipped on his hat. The leather hissed under his rough shepherd¡¯s hands, brushed the fingers of his father before him. His own loneliness fermented in his heart. The hat smelled like him, like his father. At least, Arturo thought it did, and he wondered if he could even remember that smell. He was young. It was musky, a dirty man from a small pueblo, but it was sweet with sugar cane too, and a sticky tobacco the man had packed in his lip. That¡¯s what Arturo remembered, or how he remembered it. The difference was meaningless to him. Yes, this would be his last trip to the Capital. At least for a while.


    Squealing wood hinges needed replacing in Arturo¡¯s front door. They reminded him when a scrappy looking dog jumped at the sudden high-pitched screech of Arturo opening the door and looked at him with a great deal of frustration. Odd thing for a dog to stare at a man like he had pissed in the house. ¡°Perdon¡­¡± The perro huffed in response then licked its snout and sauntered off.


    Arturo could tell the sun was coming up some fractions of a dial later than a few weeks prior. Making the pilgrimage at this time of year let him see the rains in the region just outside the bowl valley of the Capital. Rain was hard to come by in the grasslands, and they attributed almost all their water to run offs from the high places. He yearned to drink from the source.


    Arturo took his ginger steps, elation abated now by the memories he wore on his head, and found himself in front of Olina¡¯s tavern. Not surprising. He spent most of his coin here eating and drinking. Or paying for Valeria to eat and drink. Why did meals cost more than double when he added her to the bill, but she ate less than he did? The target of his running thoughts noticed him, and Valeria bounded to her feet from her place at the bar. She beat him here. Also, not surprising.


    ¡°Arturo, buenos dias, mi amor.¡±


    ¡°Buenos dias,¡± his loving reply came through a smile and a peck on her lips.


    ¡°Are you ready for your trip?¡±


    There was longing in that question. He responded truthfully anyway, ¡°I am very ready.¡± Arturo didn¡¯t want to get into this with her right now. Gone were the days of a young relationship where he was surprised when she was upset or angry with him. This trip was important to him. She would have to get past that, and it was the last one. Worry stabbed his gut about finding the work to make money for Valeria¡¯s abuela. Looming loss is not a weight he wished the woman he loved to carry on her own. He could fix it. She needed to just let him fix it.


    ¡°Que raro¡­¡± her voice trailed off as she saw the white flesh on his chest where the red scars had been just two days prior. Arturo had tried not to think about it. Observations locked away along with the nausea from those brutish executions.


    Pots rang in the kitchen, and Olina¡¯s cursing ricocheted about the tables and conversations strewn about the tavern. ¡°Tengo mucho trabajo!¡± The bartender kicked open the door, hands full with sacks of what must be food. ¡°People in this pueblo can¡¯t cook for themselves, and I have to do it all for them!¡± She dropped the food and turned back through the door to pick up more bags. Several people at the tables stood at her boisterous entrance. She reappeared, ¡°Settle down, you dogs! It¡¯s almost ready!¡± Now realizing they were dressed in travel attire, family leathers where there would typically be wool, sacks strung over their shoulders, Arturo watched the men and women grumble and sit back at their tables, half-heartedly returning to half-baked conversation.


    Arturo chuckled and shook his head, ¡°Are they not paying you?¡±


    Olina dropped the next load then shoved her shaking jowls right up to Arturo¡¯s face. Sweet cafe and clove lilted off her breath, quite the juxtaposition to her otherwise general untidiness. ¡°Not. e-NOUGH!¡± Her eyes caught something outside, and Arturo turned his head to look. Dust drifted behind the hooves of horses and wooden wagon wheels. His heart jumped, pain receding to memory again. Olina groaned, ¡°Ay, El Padre, they¡¯re early. Who in their right mind would want to be early?¡±


    Arturo shot to his feet and went for the door. He called over his shoulder, ¡°I have to pack my bag. They¡¯re already here! We can eat when I come back.¡± Thoughts left that place and flew to the mountains a ten-day ride to the east. Valeria didn¡¯t have any objection, so he raced out the door and into the center of the pueblo, registering the apparent anger squaring her shoulders and clenching her jaw a second too late. That stole his stride, and he turned back to the tavern to apologize and ask for her leave to pack, as would be the gentlemanly thing to do. After all, he wasn¡¯t going to be seeing her for the next few weeks. He met her fiery gaze from outside in the crowd, and it seemed to fuel his footfalls, feeling like flame engulfing him from the soles of his feet to his hips with a sharp pain lancing into his spine. His walk was more of a hobble now. He already worried about her getting tired of his problems and his illness and leaving. Why make it an easier choice for her?


    The hair on the back of his neck stood up. His skin crawled, and a sense of paranoia overtook him. He stood still and kept his head forward fearing what he might find if he turned it. Eyes locked with Valeria now, her anger melting into an obvious confusion, Arturo felt his eyelids plastered to his skull with fear. That awareness. He clutched at his chest, and his knees wobbled. Blood and pain splattered a tent. He shook his head. No, it was just the town square, and vendedores shouted about their fruits and bread. Valeria walked towards him now, and he held out his hand to tell her to stop. She stopped. People passed around him, giving odd looks but carrying on with indifference. Arturo needed to get a hold of himself. That awareness.


    His scalp seemed to pull his head around. Slowly. He heard the joints in his neck creak and grate and grind against each other. The joints in his fingers felt ready to burst. Towards the east, and the direction of the incoming wagons, a man and women stood in identical woolen robes the traveling merchants might wear, yet a dark black and too clean. Their faces weren¡¯t visible beneath deep hoods, but their figures gave at least their sex away. The man on the left, even taller than Arturo, and a stocky woman on the right. Confirmation seemed to ring in Arturo¡¯s mind. Confirmation or¡­ recognition? They crossed their hands in tandem, left hand over right. That awareness fled, replaced by the tension of spotting a crouching predator. A puma¡¯s head rolled at his feet and disappeared into the dust. People flowed around Arturo, moving too fast. Arturo watched the strangers¡¯ hands, and saw they were ungloved, unnatural. Their skin was neither dark nor light, scarred nor callused. It seemed¡­ gray.


    ¡°Que mierda,¡± Arturo breathed out. The man, broad shouldered, turned and flowed behind a building, walking much too unrefined a word for the movement. The woman lingered a moment longer. Arturo was positive she watched him. Then, the woman turned and followed the man out of sight. The alarm bells and feeling of recognition immediately left. Arturo shook his gaze from the spot and wondered why he¡¯d been so spooked. Many strange people came to town. Maybe their profession stained their skin. It happened to leather tanners, after all.


    Valeria ran up beside him. ¡°Que? paso?, Arturo?¡± She put a light hand on his face, and his eyes came back into focus, sound from the street returning, smells and sights around him bombarding his mind.


    ¡°Nothing, just had some chest pains.¡±


    Suspicion lowered her eyes. ¡°Bien. Well, be careful and rest on your ride. Please?¡±


    He nodded.


    She nodded back.


    He turned and walked back to his house to pack, hands and feet complaining all the way.


    ***


    An hour later, Arturo passed the waggoneers feeding and watering their horses in the street and slunk back into the tavern. He picked himself up as he entered, throwing on a mask to cover his uncertain mood. Olina stood behind the bar speaking with Valeria. Their conversation seemed intense; Arturo smirked. He slipped into the room and stayed low behind Valeria so Olina wouldn¡¯t notice him. ¡°Hola chicas!¡± He jumped up and grabbed Valeria¡¯s shoulders. Her hand slipped forward and spilled caf¨¦ down Olina¡¯s apron.


    ¡°Puto! I just cleaned this! Pinche-¡± Olina slapped her cleaning cloth on the bar counter and stalked to her pantry room, cursing him the whole way.


    ¡°Ah, Olina, lo siento! It¡¯s just caf¨¦!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s white cloth, pendejo! It will stain!¡±


    Arturo¡¯s eyes went wide, and his mouth turned into a mocking frown. Valeria turned in her seat with her mouth open in amused shock. They noticed each other¡¯s expressions and started laughing. Arturo sighed with one last chuckle and sat at the bar next to Valeria. A plate of beautiful orange egg yolks ran over tortillas and salsa. An unspilled cup of caf¨¦ sat next to the plate of food. He reached for a warming gulp.


    ¡°Not a chance. You lost yours all over poor Olina.¡± Valeria swiped the cup and drank.


    Olina¡¯s muffled voice yelled from beyond the door behind the bar, ¡°Olina is going to beat the piss out of poor Arturo!¡±


    They heard a muffled laugh then behind the door, and Valeria giggled too. Arturo wondered what portion of the sauces on his plate were in fact the bartender¡¯s spit. He tore a piece of a tortilla and scooped up egg and salsa. The food didn¡¯t taste like spit. What he couldn¡¯t taste wouldn¡¯t hurt him. ¡°So, what were you guys talking about before I ruined her morning?¡± Arturo gestured a bitten tortilla to the bar door.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Olina had some interesting customers in last night. They ordered liver and sugar water!¡±


    Arturo swallowed the mouthful, the taste of the food was lost to him. The strangers had sat in this tavern. Who else would she be talking about? She hadn¡¯t known what spooked him before, but he wouldn¡¯t let it on either. He mirrored Valeria¡¯s energy, ¡°So, interesting because they have bad taste?¡±


    ¡°No, well yes, but that¡¯s not the weird part. They kept their hoods up the whole time, and they looked off. It¡¯s pretty dark in here at night, so Olina couldn¡¯t really pin it.¡±


    Olina opened the door and stepped back to the bar, a clean apron layered over her clothes. Arturo turned his attention from Valeria to the portly middle-aged woman. ¡°See? I told you it was just caf¨¦.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s my spare, pendejo.¡± Olina narrowed her eyes at Arturo then joined the conversation as if she¡¯d been there the whole time. How she heard them speaking through the wall was beyond him. ¡°Anyway¡­ they just seemed off. Lifeless almost? I¡¯m not sure. They made my skin crawl. Like the stories of the Parents¡¯ abominations. Greatstorm demons. It¡¯s a good thing what they do for us every year with those things.¡± She added the last bit under her breath.


    Valeria made a wry chuckle, ¡°Even if a pair somehow made it past the view of the Parents, they wouldn¡¯t have just sat in your tavern ordering weird food.¡± Olina and Arturo glanced at each other. ¡°Oh, come on guys, one Greatstorm a year, and the Parents always protect us. Identical twins in your tavern, Olina? No mames! No one has ever seen them but what the Father shows us.¡±


    Reluctantly, Arturo admitted what he was trying to hide before, ¡°I think I know who you¡¯re talking about. It was a man and a woman. I¡¯m positive. Couldn¡¯t be identical twins.¡±


    ¡°So, you know how they work, huh? The scholarly shepherd?¡± Olina chided.


    ¡°Well, they¡¯re supposed to be identical,¡± Arturo responded in kind, ¡°a man and women are not identical, barkeep.¡±


    Enraged and with a stain-free apron, Olina came over the bar swinging a thick club for a hand at Arturo. He leaned back and laughed, expecting that reaction. Olina pulled back and spit on the floor and leaned back on the bar like nothing happened.


    ¡°See,¡± Valeria jumped in, ¡°not your spooky Greatstorm.¡±


    Olina rolled her eyes, ¡°Something was wrong about them.¡±


    Arturo agreed.


    Another voice chimed in, ¡°Can I please ord-¡±


    ¡°Espera, guey!¡± Olina waved off the intruder.


    Valeria raised her eyebrows, ¡°Superstitions in small towns. How clich¨¦.¡± She returned to her own food.


    ¡°Well, we do hear the voice of a god every day,¡± Arturo responded. He could tell he was getting under Valeria¡¯s skin, and not in the fun way he tried to do on purpose.


    She blew out of her nose and shook her head, ¡°Yeah, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Arturo, ready for the pilgrimage? Excited to hear from the monks?¡± Olina was good at breaking tension. It was a big part of her job.


    ¡°Yes, I am! I can¡¯t wait to get a break from this place.¡±


    Valeria pushed out her stool and stood. ¡°Disculpe?. I need to get some chores done.¡±


    Arturo realized he probably wasn¡¯t the best at breaking tension. She stormed out of the tavern and shoved past a couple vendedores crowding the door outside.


    ¡°Best get after her, boy.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    Arturo followed Valeria as she turned into an alley leading off the main square. His chest ached with anxiety as his feet ached with his swifter than comfortable movement. It had been a year since he got to move without a wince. Valeria waited for him around the corner under a wool awning. He guessed she didn¡¯t have chores to do after all.


    ¡°You¡¯re so ready to be away from me.¡± Valeria put her pointer finger on his chest.


    ¡°How could you think that?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m so ready to take a break from this place,¡± she mocked and waved her hands above her head. Arturo¡¯s mind raced for the right thing to say. He wanted to be a comfort for her.


    ¡°I- I love you, Valeria. I just need this for myself.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s supposed to be a pilgrimage, Arturo. To worship the Parents.¡±


    ¡°You know that¡¯s not why I go.¡± He also knew she could care less about worship.


    ¡°I know you love thinking you¡¯re normal in the Capital. Well, you¡¯re not. I don¡¯t love you for being normal. You brave a storm every day keeping your head held high. You try so hard to be happy with your illness, and-¡±


    ¡°And what? You don¡¯t want me to feel happy?¡± Try so hard? Arturo was happy.


    ¡°I want you to feel happy with me! Can¡¯t you see that? You play an act, but you don¡¯t feel it!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me what I do and don¡¯t feel,¡± his tone could have chilled water, ¡°I¡¯m going this year to try and bring some work back for you, Valeria. To help out. I know you guys need the money. I am happy with you. I just need the briefest relief from this constant pain. I can¡¯t sleep, think, walk, run, sit, stand or anything! You don¡¯t have any idea what this is like! You know what I feel and want? I just want a break! Why don¡¯t you want that for me?¡±


    ¡°I want you to feel that relief with me. I told you I couldn¡¯t go this year, and you accepted that so quickly.¡±


    Arturo was getting frustrated, ¡°You told me to enjoy myself!¡±


    ¡°And you never even offered to stay!¡±


    Arturo stopped what he was about to say, his mouth half open. He saw tears in her eyes. He saw his finger pointed back at her chest, the tip of it searing with pain. A pain he was so familiar with. So tired of. It wasn¡¯t about how long he would be gone, or that she didn¡¯t understand his affliction, or that she didn¡¯t need the money. She just wanted to be there for him, and all he wanted was to leave. People began cheering and hooting in the square behind them. Horses snorted, and wagon wheels creaked.


    ¡°It looks like your ride to the Capital is here.¡± Valeria looked down, tears dripping down her face. He turned and looked into the square. Wagon drivers were loading the belongings of this year¡¯s pilgrims. He felt a longing in his chest. It fought the shame of his selfishness to be gone.


    Turning back, Arturo cradled her jaw in his hands and pulled her eyes into his. ¡°I am doing this for me. I can admit that. But I promise to try and find some work to help your family,¡± he swallowed, his heart trying to force the next words back inside, ¡°And, I promise this will be the last time I make the pilgrimage. I know you can¡¯t afford to miss so many weeks of work to come with me.¡±


    Wet cheeks, unkempt hair spilling over her shoulders, and those honey brown eyes formed a pit in his stomach. He couldn¡¯t leave these. Then, the pressure of holding her face threatened to peel the skin from his fingers and split the bone. He couldn¡¯t hold her.


    ¡°Go,¡± she said, ¡°My abuela will make all the meals you like for you when you get back. It¡¯s not ok, and I don¡¯t forgive you; but I¡¯ll be waiting for you anyway. Te amo.¡±


    ¡°Will she be making them all at once? Four pots and a comal all steaming and filling the casa with smoke?¡±


    ¡°She always does.¡±


    Arturo chuckled, ¡°Te amo mas. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll accept your apology when I see you again. Get your stuff and go,¡± she brushed her finger on the fresh, white skin where she thought he¡¯d just scraped himself, ¡°and please be careful, pendejo.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡± If she knew the full of it, she¡¯d beat him senseless for even considering making this trip. A phantom relief already quieted his pounding feet and aching hands. Soon it would be gone.


    ***


    A Brother watched the demon skittering across the tiny pueblo square. A Sister¡¯s head followed it as well. It came out of one of the mud alleyways surrounded by mud shacks with a ratty pack slung over its thin shoulder. Such a pathetic looking thing. Tall and wiry like a new sprung tree. Easy to break. Shaking hands and shifting feet. Capable of so much destruction. A Sister whispered, metal ringing in her voice like a drawn sword, ¡°A Brother will follow it back home. A Sister will deal with rumors of demons.¡±


    ***


    Arturo gingerly grabbed the side of the wagon and swung himself up and inside. A poorly maintained tarp draped over wooden ribs extending from the wagon¡¯s sides. Little rays of sunlight peaked through holes in the tarp and lit small islands on the wooden floor. Many years of travel and many more travelers had worn the wood smooth. At least Arturo wouldn¡¯t have to add biting splinters to his chronic pain.


    ¡°Figures you¡¯d pick the same wagon as me.¡±


    Arturo glanced up at the gruff voice and smiled into the shadow at the front of the wagon bed, ¡°Barto? You¡¯re coming to the Capital?¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯m catching a ride to my Tia Esmerelda¡¯s house for some tacos. What does it look like I¡¯m doing.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just surprised. By the Father, you¡¯re grumpier than normal.¡±


    Huffing and puffing sounds accompanied scraping as the old man tried to sit up. A gnarly, twisted face with a single tooth bending its top lip struck one of the many holes in the tarp and winced at the sudden light. Barto had clearly been sleeping until Arturo awoke him. ¡°Maybe I¡¯m just tired from dragging your sorry culo back to town torn to shreds.¡± The wagon creaked, and a young couple, well older than Arturo and Valeria, but still young, situated themselves with the pleasant company of Barto¡¯s sneering face.


    ¡°Hola,¡± they greeted and nodded politely.


    ¡°Buenas tardes,¡± Arturo smiled and nodded back.


    Barto coughed without covering his mouth.


    Arturo pictured Valeria seated next to him on the dusty wood. A ray of sun washing her hair and eyes in light. His heart ached. His hands throbbed. He clenched his hands into a tight fist until it hurt worse than he felt.


    ¡°I can¡¯t wait to spend another few days locked up in tents in the countryside with mewling animals,¡± Barto smiled at the couple. He looked to Arturo, ¡°Y contigo. Again. Don¡¯t ask me to drag you back from the Capital too.¡±


    Soft smiles on his left and hard words on his right, but Arturo was going to have a great trip despite, well, everything. ¡°I¡¯m looking forward to spending some quality time with you too, amigo,¡± he replied cheerfully to Barto then slapped the old man on the back and grasped his shoulder. Barto might have gotten kicked by a mule for the coughing that came after.


    The four of them waited in the back of the wagon while the rest of the caravan filled up with people and their belongings. After a few minutes, the driver called out, ¡°Nos vamos! We want to make the foothills by sundown!¡± The wagon creaked forward, and the horses whinnied. Concentrated sunlight in the little holes of the tarp warmed his head. Swirling wind caught his hat as he turned to see if Valeria had come to watch them go. She had not. The sombrero flew off his head and out the back of the wagon. ¡°Ah, my hat! Esperame, esperame!¡±


    The driver called back from outside, ¡°Just run, muchacho! We are at the back of the line anyway!¡±


    Arturo groaned, but his pains would be over soon. ¡°Excuse me, amigos,¡± Arturo grunted at the couple as he scooted himself to the back of the wagon.


    ¡°Pendejo!¡± Barto barked and laughed at him. Arturo jerked his head to glare at the old man. Some of that fear from their talk yesterday flashed in his eyes. The grump swallowed, and Arturo turned back to continue out of the wagon.


    Dirt rushed up to meet and punish his feet. Daggers traveled up his legs and all the way to his eyes, shirt shifting on his searing skin like sandpaper. He took long, forceful breaths and closed his eyes. He couldn¡¯t travel without that hat. It was his good luck charm and the only thing of his family he possessed. He kept his head down and pushed through the pain. He picked up his pace to the fastest he could take. A heavy hand slammed into his chest and knocked the wind out of him.


    ¡°I heard you yell about this and saw it drifting to the ground, amigo.¡± The last word sounded forced. Arturo pulled his eyes from the ground and tried to catch his breath. The hand that struck him still rested on his chest. It was gloved in brown leather. A rather fine leather at that. Arturo took deep breaths and looked up to the glove¡¯s owner. One of the strange folk in the merchant robes, grayish skin on his neck and face. Recognition again. Heartbeats flooded Arturo¡¯s ears, and his lungs seemed depleted of air.


    The stranger proffered Arturo¡¯s father¡¯s hat in his other hand. The leather of the hat seemed like cheap garbage in those gloves. ¡°Gracias,¡± Arturo wheezed. He reached for his hat.


    The man¡¯s hand pressed slightly harder into Arturo¡¯s chest, but he kept his feet planted. He wouldn¡¯t be pushed around by some stranger. ¡°You should be more thoughtful of your personal things, young man. If you¡¯re not careful, someone will take advantage of your complacency.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, but it¡¯s just a hat,¡± Arturo reached again for it. The man let him grab his hat, but he didn¡¯t let go. Arturo balled his other hand into a fist. He didn¡¯t want to risk a fight with the stranger. If he hit the man like he hit the wildcat, there would be no hiding from the people of the town. From Valeria. Then again, if he punched the man and nothing out of the ordinary happened, he¡¯d be beaten to a pulp. So, no punching would have to suffice.


    The fake merchant glanced at Arturo¡¯s clenched fist, and to Arturo¡¯s surprise, the same fear in Barto¡¯s eyes flashed across this man¡¯s eyes. How did he know what happened? Was the Ministry watching somehow? Strange agents sent to strange occurrences in the country? The rest of the Ministry people had left the town, on to their next stop in their never-ending aid efforts to the pueblos of the grasslands. Arturo applauded them for it. This stranger hardly fit the benevolent hand of the Ministry.


    ¡°Ah, mi amigo, I apologize if I have frightened you,¡± the stranger smiled at Arturo. His teeth and gums were almost gray too, almost¡­ lifeless. Arturo thought back to what Olina said about the stranger¡¯s appearance and his own odd experience in the square. He ached to be far away from the stranger. There was something unnatural about this man.


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry about it.¡± Arturo tried to swallow with a bone-dry throat.


    ¡°Better hurry to catch your ride. The Capital awaits.¡±


    Arturo nodded his hand, and the grey man finally released the sombrero. ¡°Gracias.¡±


    He stumbled back to the caravan, and the wagon graced Arturo with its comfort. He was tired of the wild things going on in his life. Was it too much to ask for to get some normal days of peace and quiet? Barto farted from his corner, and funny enough, that counted on the side of normality.


    The wagon lurched forward and people in the crowd yelled their goodbyes. A mariachi played on the corner of Olina¡¯s tavern as they passed. The tinny notes set a fast pace that seemed to jitter with Arturo¡¯s thoughts and draw him to sleep. The sight of the strangers watching them leave unsettled his very bones. It was an odd feeling to nod off to. ¡°Barto, can you wake me in an hour or so?¡± A snore rumbled the side of the wagon as drool dripped down the old man¡¯s chin. ¡°Nevermind.¡± Arturo slumped down and brought the lip of his hat over his eyes.


    Buenas noches, mi hijo.

 Chapter 6

    Chapter 6


    Buenos dias, mi hijo.


    Whispers of harsh voices beyond the door woke Aquiles with immediate suspicion. Incognito to only the most oblivious of listeners, their timbre was mired with unease and distrust in their conversation. Crusted mucus on his eyelids split and cracked as he looked up at the ceiling and hammers and chisels echoed in his skull. Under the door, shifting and sprawling lines of darkness among the rays of torchlight shot across the floor. He coughed, and the voices and shadows went still.


    ¡°Arm of Us, como estas?¡± Socorra¡¯s voice scratched through from the hall. It was still dark outside, the same time Aquiles normally awoke. Yet this time, he¡¯d fallen asleep not from tired eyes, but from passing out after Jorge¡¯s onslaught at the end of their sparring match. Opaque images and slurred sounds sputtered through his mind, invigorating the migraine finding a strong perch in his head. His body was consistent if it was anything. Or had the Mother awakened him? Could she even wake her children up like this? Aquiles¡¯ mind drifted into the awkward space his absence of a response to Socorra left.


    He snapped back to the moment and answered, ¡°Bien, bien. I¡¯m fine, but I will need to get some water.¡±


    Socorra barged into the room, ¡°You¡¯ll need more than water after your little display.¡± Aquiles realized his robes, and any garment to conceal his more personal aspects, were missing or misplaced. He pulled the blanket up to his chest. How had he gotten back to his room anyway? Grey hair and blue sky were the last his eyes recalled seeing the day before.


    The hag scoffed at him, ¡°I¡¯m the one that had to take your robes off in the first place.¡± She shuffled forward and threw a wad of monks¡¯ robes and a cord at him, ¡°And! And I raised all of you since you were babies. So skittish.¡± Socorra bustled around his room opening drawers, leaving them open, and moving his curtains aside.


    ¡°Is there something you need, Child Socorra?¡± Numb, and becoming number with confusion and the persistent heartbeat in his ears, Aquiles took the situation in stride. He absently scratched his fully healed nose and hardly remarked on its swift recovery.


    ¡°Yeah, some Father-loving peace and quiet for once in my life. You know, watching out for all you nin?os and talking to gods every week can really start to wear on your nerves. You all are lucky I act so jovial!¡± Socorra ended her tirade with her pointer finger jamming Aquiles¡¯ chest. ¡°You look skinny, you need to eat something.¡± Socorra sniffed closer to his face and wrinkled her nose, ¡°Maybe something with mint.¡±


    More shuffling from outside seemed to annoy the Child. Emiliano peaked into the room, ¡°Child Socorra, I brought some-¡± The vieja had her sandal off her foot and in her hand before he could finish his sentence. The sandal caught the Thunderhead square between the eyes.


    ¡°Your reaction time stinks worse than his breath,¡± Socorra proclaimed, pointing at Aquiles without looking.


    ¡°Yes, Child! I will practice more!¡± Emiliano left a vial of some clear liquid in the open door. He turned quickly, and Aquiles heard the poor man¡¯s feet scrambling down the hallway.


    Socorra turned back to Aquiles. Somehow, her other sandal was in her hand already, and she fixed him with a suspicious glare. ¡°What took you so long, huh?¡±


    ¡°Que??¡±


    She flung the sandal at him, and without thinking, Aquiles struck the sandal with a lightning bolt. It jumped from his chest, and the sandal burnt then burst to pieces, bright light flashing in an instant then disappearing.


    ¡°Precisely that.¡±


    Aquiles eyes widened. The previous day clipped through his mind in a rush, and his stomach twisted at the sight of the too-sweet ichor sitting in his doorway. Objections spilled out in a torrent, ¡°Child Socorra, I promise, I knew nothing of this. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s going on. I don¡¯t have a twin. I never struck Jorge or anybody, I¡¯m just a swordsman,¡± probably the only time he¡¯d admit to being just a swordsman, ¡°the only thing I know of the Storms is that I wouldn¡¯t want to fight one. Por favor, this doesn¡¯t make any sense.¡±


    Socorra rolled her eyes, ¡°Si, si. That¡¯s enough. I know you don¡¯t know anything. And that¡¯s what the rest of the Monastery will know. I had my hands on you when that angry mierdito got carried away. Jorge has a temper.¡± She scuttled over to the vial and picked it up. She pulled the stopper and sniffed it with a smile, ¡°It tastes better with chile? and limo?n.¡±


    ¡°Why would it matter if you had your hands on me?¡±


    She gave him the most degrading and stupefied look Aquiles had ever seen a Child of the Parents and the Monastery bestow upon an all-too-inferior being.


    ¡°I¡¯m a Bolt you buffoon. How else did you think I could be out there teaching that group of morons?¡±


    Aquiles was stunned. Never had he considered the possibility Socorra could be anything more than the abrasive Arm he always experienced. ¡°I- I didn¡¯t know.¡± In fact, wouldn¡¯t she need a twin to be a Bolt? Where was her brother or sister? By the Parents and all good things¡­ Was there another Socorra parading around somewhere terrifying farmers out in the country? ¡°Where¡¯s your sibling? There always must be two of you, Bolt and Thunderhead.¡± Truthfully, Aquiles was stumbling here. Education on the secretive society of the Storms was limited and brisk in his schooling. By the Parents¡¯ guidance, their blessed children were mythical amongst the rest of the population.


    Plain sadness wrote itself in the delicate, wrinkled skin of Socorra¡¯s face. Her age was apparent, but she never acted it. Now, its weight on her soul sagged her wit and enthusiasm. ¡°That only works one way, nin?o. Lightning before thunder. Always that way. It¡¯s just me now. The lightning.¡±


    ¡°What happ-¡±


    ¡°It is personal,¡± she cut him off, ¡°the Monastery thinks I saved you, and that is that.¡± Her lips curled into the deceitful grimace the Child might claim for a smile, ¡°But I didn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°This doesn¡¯t make sense. How can I use these blessings? Who were the people you were talking to?¡±


    ¡°In time, Arm of Us. As for the people, I was preparing your escort to the Ministry. Today, your apprenticeship under me continues.¡±


    He hoped desperately it wouldn¡¯t end with him passing out again.


    Socorra gestured at the vial Emiliano left, ¡°Drink it. You¡¯ll stop feeling and looking like a donkey kicked your face in.¡±


    Aquiles sighed and extended his hand for the vial.


    ¡°No chile? and limo?n?¡±


    ¡°Taste doesn¡¯t matter, only the food¡¯s use to me.¡±


    ¡°I bet you¡¯re fun at fiestas,¡± Socorra handed him the vial.


    ¡°To the Parents.¡± He gulped it down. ¡°AHHH! BUENOS DIAS, MADRE!¡± Aquiles jumped out of bed with a surge of energy. His very blood boiled.


    ¡°Yup, you were running dry,¡± Socorra chuckled, then cleared her throat. ¡°Still naked.¡±


    ¡°I thought you said it didn¡¯t matter.¡±


    ¡°No, but I am still a nun. I¡¯m not sure the Father would appreciate this when you talk to him later today.¡±


    Aquiles¡¯ entire body froze, his heart stopping mid-beat. ¡°Wha- what do you- I¡¯m talking to him? Today?¡±


    ¡°Yes, why else would you go to the Ministry?¡± She sneered, ¡°And he would prefer you fully clothed.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean I was running dry? That doesn¡¯t make sense,¡± Aquiles huffed after Socorra as she shambled her frail form through the hallways of dirt and terrified Young Ones.


    ¡°Oh, that, there¡¯s some machines under the Ministry.¡± Child Socorra seemed to have finished her sentence. Aquiles pushed his head forward and leaned his ear in for the next bit of information. She just stared the passing Young Ones into submission and ignored him entirely. One little boy yelped and stumbled backwards into the wall.


    ¡°Child Socorra, the machines. What are you talking about?¡± Exasperation veiled by, well, not by anything. Aquiles would learn to be more tactful.


    The hag shuffled along. Somehow, a new pair of dirty sandals likely worn more years than Aquiles could claim to his life scuffed up the ground.  She jerked her head at a particularly deep rut she carved into the dirt, and a few Young Ones dove to shore up the blemish of the floor. ¡°Yes, the machines. Well, the machines can run dry.¡±


    Aquiles stopped walking and watched her continue. ¡°The machines run dry. Yes, of course. I should¡¯ve known.¡±


    ¡°Vamos, nin?o,¡± Socorra called back to him, ¡°we need to meet your escort at the mess. She will take you to the Ministry.¡± A squeak of bone and saliva ground through his head as Aquiles ground his teeth. Nin?o.


    He caught back up after his useless questioning of the vieja when they reached the main square. Sharp spiral stairs carried their holy load of men and women about the vast interior of the pyramid. Aquiles found time to marvel at the construction, terraces on the outside and the living space for near a thousand on the inside, dressed in the drab draping of stone and dirt, yet it was home. Though, Aquiles never quite found the place comforting, just short solace in solstices at the sundial. With a jolt of panic, Aquiles realized he hadn¡¯t finished his paper on the sundial in the garden. Probably wasn¡¯t of much import now. He focused on the forefront matter.


    ¡°Is now really the best time, Child? To be going on a trip to the Ministry and being so.. seen?¡±


    Socorra stopped and Aquiles bumped into her from the back, sharp shoulder blades poking at his stomach. ¡°Are you questioning if I can tell when the best time is?¡±


    ¡°No, just with my incident-¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the fourth hour.¡±


    ¡°Que??¡±


    ¡°The best time is the fourth hour.¡± Socorra bared her teeth at him. ¡°Come, young Arm. Do as you''re told.¡±


    Grey stone closed around them as they crossed the square and the pyramid wall came down to meet them. Stone gave way to dirt and clay. Dirty Young Ones were sweeping the floor of the hallway.


    ¡°Clean and clear of dirt!¡± Horacio demanded, a wholly pointless endeavor, at the great amusement of the aged swords master. ¡°They stole some extra bread yesterday at breakfast,¡± he laughed. Aquiles had only ever seen him laugh at Young Ones doing useless chores.


    Socorra clapped the oldest looking boy on the shoulder, ¡°Te gusta pan, verdad?¡±


    He shook his head, fervor and fear, a mighty mixture in a young boy. ¡°No! I don¡¯t! At least, not anymore!¡±


    ¡°Que bien.¡± She shifted her attention to Horacio, ¡°Let them go about their day. I need you to come with us, Child.¡±


    Horacio made a shooing motion with his hand, ¡°You all heard her. No more trouble today, or you¡¯re going to be watering the garden in the rain.¡± The Young Ones bustled away.


    The three approached the mess hall. Aquiles hung his head and exhaled as the rambunctious old hag shuffled into the mess first, drawing the attention she always appeared to crave. Children sat in small groups at the circular tables. The mathematics instructors, trainers, and alchemists had gathered in their own cliques, whispering in each other¡¯s ears and pointing at the other tables hidden with little care of being seen, just as childish as the Young Ones they so often treated as immature. What salacious debauchery could a group of monks have possibly gotten themselves into to warrant such behavior? Aquiles snorted to himself and smirked out the side of his mouth.


    ¡°Not the righteous bunch you knew when you were little,¡± Child Socorra rasped over her shoulder. A hush fell over the crowd as more of the monks noticed the new arrivals in the mess hall. The trio moved off to the side for more privacy. Child Horacio, mean with a sword and just about every other aspect of his life; current Arm of the Monastery, one of the most influential people in the entirety of La Terra; and her apprentice, a man whom the Children had decided was a brat, the consensus passed by word of mouth from clique to clique, level to level, dedication to dedication.


    Aquiles didn¡¯t fault the gawking. He had been the unsteady child they saw in him these past few days, and today, he was going to right that image. Eyes poked holes in his confidence, and his own glazed over with fear disguised as what Aquiles hoped was nonchalance. But maybe the very mechanism that brought on the hot glares would feed the lie of Socorra defending him in the humiliation training, shrouding his own inexplicable use of a Bolt¡¯s blessing. Not that it could be a Bolts¡¯ blessing. Aquiles had no twin. Some other supernatural force of the Parents¡¯ will, maybe. The young Arm-in-training was swimming in the unknown.


    A woman materialized in the space next to Aquiles. He jolted and looked around. It was as if she formed from the currents of stale air wafting off Socorra; not there one moment, but the next, she was.


    ¡°Love them or hate them, you have to respect them,¡± the mystery woman spoke with a dry intonation at odds with a clearly forced smile on her face.


    ¡°Where¡¯d you come from,¡± Aquiles responded, head still spinning to discover her approach vector.


    The question was swatted aside, ¡°Most of them are experts in their fields. Or deadly martial artists,¡± she leaned her head toward him while still looking forward, ¡°not that you¡¯d have a problem, right?¡± Her eyes flashed at him as she pulled her head back straight. They erased the unease from the monks¡¯ glares and replaced it with a primal urge to run. A wild animal¡¯s eyes, a predator.


    Socorra stopped and turned, ¡°Ah, Josefa, estas aqui.¡± The woman next to Aquiles made a little flourish to the Child.


    ¡°Ready to escort our Arm of Us to the Ministry.¡± She flashed that look at Aquiles again. Instinct drew his sword hand to his waist to protect himself, but there was no leather-strapped handle to grasp, no steel to draw or hide behind.


    Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail with two thin strands hanging around her face, the rest of it pulled taught and slicked down to a midnight sheen. Dazzling white teeth shone behind that fake sweet smile. She was rather short and stocky like the women found in the plains of the country, or so his textbooks read. Ready hands gripped her belt holding up loose wool pants and keeping tight a tucked in brown shirt of similarly spun wool. Her shoulders flexed under a worn leather jacket with sparse metal studs on the lapel. This Josefa looked ready for a fight.


    Aquiles caught himself staring, as if locked in a trance, and turned his eyes to the floor. He shouldn¡¯t be terrified of this woman. She had to be in her middle years, light wrinkles around the spots they always form. He steeled himself and looked her back in the eyes. They burned with a raging fire he felt searing the inside of his skull.


    Socorra cleared her throat. ¡°Aquiles, this is Josefa. Commander of the Monastery guard.¡±


    Without breaking his stare, he replied, ¡°I didn¡¯t know we had a guard.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because we don¡¯t tell anyone,¡± she paused then continued in a softer tone, ¡°and we haven¡¯t always had one.¡±


    ¡°The Child is scared a pair of Greatstorm twins are going to tear the place down,¡± Child Horacio interjected.


    Josefa¡¯s monotone sliced at Aquiles, ¡°Scared is not the word I would use, Child.¡± Her raging stare seemed to flare. ¡°Identical twins are dealt with by our great Father as often as the problem arises, but they¡¯re power is legend.¡± Josefa finally doused the fire to address Child Horacio. ¡°We are here to check the real powers of our country. Namely¡­¡± At the last word, Josefa jerked her head in the direction of the city and beyond, to the Ministry. Aquiles screwed up his face in confusion. The Ministry had always been a benevolent, if sometimes aloof, force in La Terra. That little head jerk was almost blasphemous.


    Socorra walked over to him and placed her hand warmly on his shoulder, ¡°You will come to understand our position as you take my place. You can¡¯t always trust the warming gestures of a higher power.¡± She lifted her hand and slapped the back of his neck, ¡°See!? Ha! Snap out of it Arm of Us, you need to be in fighting shape for today. Speaking to the Father can be¡­ draining.¡±


    He rubbed more the annoyance than the sting out of his stiff neck. ¡°Are the rest of the Children concerned with the Monastery having an armed guard?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not armed,¡± Josefa replied in an instant.


    ¡°Indeed,¡± Aquiles narrowed his eyes.


    Socorra sighed, ¡°Josefa is more my assistant than guard, to be sure. The other Children see it this way.¡± Odd how they stood apart from the monks now and Socorra still spoke with a hush.


    Child Horacio added, ¡°Really, it is better the monks are comfortable rather than aware of Socorra¡¯s distrust of¡­ well, just about everyone.¡±


    Socorra grimaced, ¡°Just about.¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Awkward silence.


    Josefa cleared her throat and threw some life into her words for the first time since Aquiles had become aware of her existence, ¡°Taking a trip through the Capital is very enjoyable. Would you like to take some friends through the mercados?¡± Josefa tilted her head in a fake curiosity and turned up the last word too much.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have any friends; I don¡¯t have the time.¡± Aquiles couldn¡¯t think of anyone in the Monastery close enough to his level to be worth talking to. Other than the Children and Masters of the Sword, of course.


    ¡°Ah, que triste,¡± Josefa pouted.


    Today would be less than pleasant.


    Josefa guided Aquiles and Child Horacio out of the mess hall and into the large hallway attached to the center square of the pyramid. Out of instinct, Aquiles turned left to walk back through the square and out of the pyramid from the singular entrance and exit located at the Grand Hall, still a blissful place empty of stinking shepherds and farmhands from the plains. Horacio hooked his heel about Aquiles¡¯ ankle and wrenched him to the right. ¡°Child Socorra finds more inconspicuous means of coming and going as more desirable for her meetings with the Father,¡± the old man nodded his head to the right, ¡°but she usually just speaks to him from here.¡±


    ¡°How could she talk to him from here? And, how else could we leave?¡±


    ¡°Same way he shows us the wonderful executions,¡± Horacio responded cheerily. A knot twisted in Aquiles¡¯ stomach. While the executions were an obvious necessity, he did not enjoy experiencing the affair each year. The knotted old man continued, ¡°As for leaving¡­ This pyramid is old, very old. She has her secrets.¡±


    Two large forms melted from a shadowed portion of the walls, looming as the mountains over the valley, breath reverberating through the air around them, great beasts of men. All the thick limbs of Jorge and Emiliano combined, yet with twice their height; Aquiles¡¯ neck strained to meet their eyes and examine what must be inhuman faces. If Greatstorm demons grew to adulthood, they would look like these two, for these were most definitely a Storm, yet not one Aquiles had ever seen or dreamed. A pair of toothy smiles, smashed noses, and eyes wrinkled with laugh lines looked back down. ¡°How in the Father¡¯s great, godly name do they hide themselves,¡± Aquiles gasped. They smiled down at him, immobile statues carved from a cliff face.


    ¡°Hola mis amigos! Thank you for joining us!¡± Josefa bobbed up and down walking backward now yet continuing on without slowing down.


    Horacio quivered and came to halt, perhaps making the same assertion on the visage of demons. ¡°The rest- the rest of the guard,¡± he stuttered.


    ¡°Just the three of them?¡± Aquiles whispered out of the corner of his mouth, not daring to take his eyes off the giants. They just stood there. Unmoving. Smiling still. How terrifying.


    ¡°Do you think they need any more with these two? I swear, any more similar, and they could be a Greatstorm.¡± Horacio hissed back then hurried around the majority force of the guard and caught up with Josefa.


    She kept on bobbing, walking backward, and hiding an apparent injury to her feet it seemed. Had the guard really been needed to do some guarding recently? Aquiles read the movements of people, picked apart obvious weaknesses, really a necessary skill to be a good swordsman.  It was obvious Josefa was trying to hide pain and doing a poor job of it, but she spoke without a hint of it in her voice. ¡°Meet Juan,¡± she gestured at the giant just behind Aquiles¡¯ and to his left, ¡°and, Juan.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re joking.¡± She shook her head no. Aquiles dipped his head in disbelief. Josefa watched him expectantly. He turned and made an exasperated greeting, ¡°Mucho gusto, Juan.¡± He looked at the other brother, ¡°Y tu tambien. Other Juan.¡± They simultaneously cracked crooked smiles with mountains of crooked teeth.


    ¡°They¡¯re a Storm then?¡±


    Horacio interjected and scoffed, ¡°That goes without saying. Closest thing to a Greatstorm the Monastery has seen, looks and otherwise.¡± His voice quivered alongside his shoulders.


    A gaze to turn the dirt halls to glass met Horacio, and the man shriveled under it. This display today was a sore blemish on Aquiles¡¯ view of the normally confident and stolid sword master. Josefa seemed to hold back a thought and turned from her odd company. ¡°Well,¡± she cleared her throat, ¡°we¡¯ll head straight to the Ministry. Aquiles doesn¡¯t seem to be the fun sight-seeing type.¡± She added with a quick stab of her eyes over her shoulder, ¡°Despite being locked in here his whole life.¡± The corners of her mouth turned up in disgust as she gestured around her.


    The party came to an abrupt halt. The spot was no different than the rest of the hallway with its compact dirt walls, floor, ceiling, and its many doppelgangers throughout the Monastery. Josefa began knocking and putting her ear to the wall, a presentation of some great detective skill if sarcasm didn¡¯t drip from each movement she made. Horacio sighed, ¡°This is all for show. She knows exactly where we are.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I can quite see that. Gracias,¡± Aquiles rolled his eyes. His sword master¡¯s stern, disciplined disapproval of Aquiles attitude came back in full force, straightened back and pursed lips. Aquiles decided to add a nod of his head and some humility to dissuade another impossible sparring match, ¡°Perdon.¡±


    Passersby here were infrequent, servants and cooks and cobblers and clothes spinners, none of the nosy monks, absent the nervous air of Young Ones. Only kitchens and storage rooms populated this wing of the first level of the pyramid. Still, Josefa glanced around, suspicion cooling the undying fire in her eyes, fingers delicately brushing the wall and wincing as her fingernail knocked on one of the lonely rocks embedded there. The woman barely touched it but looked like she wanted to cry out, jaw clenched. Great lot of good a guard could do with a pain tolerance like that. Typical of Socorra to appoint such an odd group of misfits. The thought of Aquiles¡¯ own place among these people flitted through his mind strong enough to be noticed, but brief enough for his confidence to brush it aside. Josefa giggled and pushed her index finger into a hidden hole in the dirt. A section of the wall gave way to the grind of stone and settling dust.


    Josefa stood back and held her hand towards the hole in the wall. Juan ducked through and Other Juan - who was slightly uglier and, therefore, not identical - waited for them to enter. Aquiles looked at the new hole, dumbstruck and confused as to the mechanics of the doorway. Heavy rocks and pulleys, or some other thing Profesor Guillermo would love to study and teach about in his classes on mechanisms and knick-knacks. ¡°Why is this here?¡±


    ¡°How else would all the servants come and go without a stream of them through the main square disturbing us all day?¡± Horacio gave Aquiles a questioning look like he¡¯d just asked what color the sky was.


    ¡°I thought they lived here?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous.¡±


    ¡°Do the guard live here?¡±


    Deep rumbles undulated from the dark depths of the tunnel and rock stretching into an unknown abyss. ¡°Si?,¡± the rumbles said. It was Juan speaking.


    ¡°We have beds that big?¡±


    ¡°...no,¡± the darkness of Juan replied, innocent sadness in it.


    They entered the open maw, and began their walk in silence through the long, dark tunnel. Well, it would have been silence if not for Josefa¡¯s incessant whistling and the Juans¡¯ heavy breathing. Horacio was truly silent in contrast to the coming city and the rest of the group, but Aquiles thought it might be his petrification with fear of the twins. Sad and superstitious. Aquiles was becoming adjusted to not knowing what was going on, so he started noticing all the annoying little things people did around him again. Those two were similar but far from identical. That would be ridiculous. Light showed ahead of them finally, and the noise of a bustling crowd echoed off the walls. It seemed the tunnel dumped directly into the city.


    Sights and smells bombarded Aquiles. He was accustomed to bland surroundings, bland people, and bland food. This place was a melting pot of sensation and individuals from across the city, and the rest of the land. He hated it. Meat was not charring, it was burning; fat not sizzling, but screaming; people were not laughing, they were barking. Aquiles screwed up his nose, and his heart began to race. He closed his eyes and focused on the pulse of his blood. Mastering the sword required concentration, he could snap himself out of this unbalancing rush. The party emerged from a scattering of rocks covering the tunnel exit.


    ¡°This is El Mercado Roja.¡± Josefa smiled and nodded her head. ¡°You¡¯ll always know you¡¯re here because everything is, uh, red.¡±


    Aquiles knew where they were. He¡¯d gone into the city before, however infrequently. Red tarps and tapestries, red carts and clothes, red food surrounded them, a mural in the air praising the color, a misguided dedication by Aquiles¡¯ reckoning. El Mercado Rojo was a place of bright, scarlet red, scathing and jarring, not muted or dull. A particular vendedor hung pig heads with hooks from a bar and was frying a suspicious pile of meat on a plancha. He poured a red sauce over the meat, and steam consumed his face. Tortillas sputtered and spit in the fat of the cecina, and the man swung down a hand as packed with meat as his dangling mutilations, disregarding the heat of the fire on the clay, to scoop a tortilla and snag a fistful from his mound of meat. Josefa sighed, ¡°Best tacos in town right there. Too bad we don¡¯t have the time.¡± Aquiles stomach twisted, imagining the taste. Too many flavors. The tortillas with some simple grilled steak would do just fine. People in the city obsessed over their food, fighting over the best taqueria. It was silly.


    Great green ridges, gargantuan in their cutting of the sky, engulfed the Capital in a ring of terraced agriculture and foliage and barren brown, gray rock and stone. Mountains cradled the city in a protective hold, in an imprisoning snare. A single pass through these peaks could be found on the west side of the city, to Aquiles¡¯ back, the only place a person could walk up and down the slopes of El Valle de Las Tormentas. Exits from the Capital at any other point were mired by steep and treacherous footing, legging it up the walls of the valley and praying the Parents watched over your ascent. Of course, a person could walk the narrow valleys between the mountains dotted by remote pueblos - providing goat meat and high-altitude crops for dyeing wool and packing ice - for a day or two until getting lost in the unending sea of jagged and jutting verdant stone. The view from the tallest peak, just one day¡¯s hike to the east but one day¡¯s plunge into wilderness, presented the descending slopes to the lowlands and grasslands beyond to the west. But, according to the more adventurous monks, a look towards the rising sun was like gazing into the sky at night. Aquiles knew what they meant. He would look up and feel like he would fall into the stars forever, past the bats swooping for their buzzing dinner, past the clouds, past the roaming stars in their constant orbit in the darkness. The mountains stretched far beyond any man would be capable of travelling, to the ends of the world. Walk east and starve.


    The road ran perpendicular to the tunnel exit. The group meandered to the left along the road and soaked in the stimulations of El Mercado Rojo. Aquiles found the barrios and mercados of the Capital to be aptly named. They were a descriptive people here in the city. The slopes of the mountains on his right were dotted by pastel casas and steep, cobbled roads. Residents of Las Afueras Escalaras were all fit and able-bodied, even the viejos were more capable than most of the soft merchants in the bowl of the valley.


    El Derecho took them through the city, red turning to more boring colors, grey and beige, stacked stone or plastered mud holding up thin reed roofs, and in some places, even thin metal. People walked along the street, staring past each other, going where they needed to with all of their own purposes. Aquiles appreciated that. Too often the Children would digress from their conversations, and country folk were always slow. Old men sat on overturned buckets, eating together, playing games, drinking, and smoking. Mostly all at the same time. Young men worked on the roads and built houses. Vendedores sold out of store fronts, a boisterous young man calling out prices and waving at passersby all while repairing a wagon axle with aloof yet deft hands.


    The Ministry took up more and more of their view as they walked. From end to end, the Capital was perhaps five miles, cut through by El Derecho, barrios branching off the main road. After more than an hour, they arrived at the courtyard before the twin pyramid to the Monastery. The Ministry stood. A huge pyramid of terraced stone built into a mountain face. Up close, the Ministry felt somehow grander than his lifelong home. The structures were all but identical. Demons of the capital perhaps. Both had ten major terraces on the outside. No stairs marked the incline like smaller pyramids strewn throughout La Terra. Precise and rough, gray stone held the load of the next indistinguishable stone above it. The pyramids fit into the valley of the Capital, built into the mountains. They stood in the sun¡¯s path, and the Ministry tickled the fiery circle every morning.


    Where most differences between the pyramids were miniscule, the entrance to the Ministry was a grand affair escorted by a court of Storms. The same gray stone that made up the Ministry was laid into the ground about its entrance in a radius of five hundred paces, dirt streets suddenly impinging upon carefully planned craftsmanship. The Monastery had a large Welcome Hall separated from the main square. Pilgrims came into the Capital at the end of each summer and sat for mass in the Monastery¡¯s Great Hall. Young Ones were not permitted there with the pilgrims. Neither were they permitted here. Armored Storms stood in two, parallel lines of ten before a small stone archway. It was rare to see armored guards anywhere but here, let alone the blessed of the land in full plate. It wasn¡¯t necessary, but it was a blessing, nonetheless.


    People loved the Parents and their government, by the Parent¡¯s guidance. Yet, ten armored Storms just to guard the entrance. The Monastery received only that many Storms to train in as many years. The Parents knew when and where Storms would be born. Sometimes they were born too remotely to easily be brought to the Ministry for training and assignments. The Monastery took those poor bastards. Enamored for a moment, now Aquiles¡¯ discomfort and insecurity at what would be taking place here today reigned supreme. Footsteps of Ministry officiants echoed off the stone and the front-facing slop of the pyramid. He swallowed a lump in his throat.


    Child Horacio waved his hands to the foremost guard in the right line, ¡°Disculpe?, we have brought the young Arm for his meeting with the Father.¡± The man turned his head alone. The guard saluted Aquiles, balling his fist and dragging his metal gauntlet from right shoulder to left just under his collarbone. The gauntlet, and the whole of the armor, was adorned with colors like a rainbow splintered into chaotic lines. The lines jutted and crossed and looked like thorny vines¡­ lightning bolts. Each lightning pattern seemed to be unique, placed there as the Storm earned their armor, the Bolts sending a shock through the metal from top to bottom, burning it into the patterns they wore. The guards opposite the Bolts had round patterns pressed into slightly misshapen vambraces and breastplates. Thunderhead guards would punch shockwaves into the heated metal soon to become their armor.


    The Bolt responded, ¡°Of course, Child. Through the Welcome Hall and into the Atrium. You will be escorted from there.¡±


    Footsteps echoed in the archway of the Hall now, and then into a strangely lit and enormous room. Pure white lines of light ringed the floor of a hemispherical dome of a room. It was an unnatural light, unwavering and lifeless. Actually¡­ calming¡­ to Aquiles, without all the chaos and dance of fire. But the walls; they were most unique. The Pure black of a thunderstorm at midnight, no stars nor moon nor light of any kind. The stone drank the luminescence from the floor and spit it back up in random directions. Glossy and smooth, it was unlike any stone or gem Aquiles had seen or imagined. More Storms stood guard at the entrances to hallways leading from this, what must be the Atrium. Aquiles got the sense the interior of the Ministry was larger somehow than his home, much larger. The passages leading out of the Atrium dwarfed the main hallways of the Monastery. Perhaps this place was built further into the surrounding mountain than it appeared. Groups of five marched in leather jerkins with swords and spears. Normal men. Men that fought with sweat and steel. Men like him.


    Well, he hoped he was still like them.


    ¡°Esta?s inferma, Josefa,¡± Other Juan¡¯s voice boomed in Aquiles¡¯ chest from their proximity. Josefa was indeed bent at her waist with her hands on her knees, seeming to gasp for air. She shook her head and waved him off, but said nothing.


    ¡°Keep your voice down,¡± snapped Horacio. He noticed Aquiles¡¯ confusion and leaned in, ¡°She suffered a terrible accident working here. It killed her sister.¡±


    Josefa stiffened and she grunted through clenched teeth, ¡°That is long in the past. The escort is here.¡±


    A spindly wire of a man skidded to a stop in front of them and squeaked, ¡°This way!¡± The group stumbled after him towards the hallway at the opposite side of the Atrium. The dome had to be at least five hundred paces across. Aquiles glanced up as he jogged, and the Father knew how high. His gut wrenched at the thought of the god literally telling him moments from now, in person.


    Aquiles appreciated the escort¡¯s rather urgent nature running them across the Atrium like this. The Juans lumbered more than ran. No one seemed to care about them bustling through the room. The Storms looked forward and the normal men kept on marching. ¡°I¡¯m supposed to explain about the Storm-powered lighting¡­ ahh¡­ and the uh¡­ ahh¡­ the Parents¡¯ stone in¡­ But¡­ ahh¡­ very little time. You monks¡­ aren¡¯t punctual.¡± The escort was breathing heavily and was half-limping at a breakneck pace, ¡°Please keep up!¡± Josefa had a slight limp to her as well, and Aquiles watched her run from his vantage behind. That pain must still be with her.


    The scrambling party of monks and oafs slowed as they entered the hallway out of breath. ¡°Parents¡¯ stone,¡± the escort huffed and gestured around himself, ¡°I hope¡­ you can take¡­ in all the details¡­ the Father seeks to¡­ ahh¡­  impress new Arms... many hours scrubbing.¡± The gangly man turned as he spoke, then picked up his pace again. Juan grunted as he began his stumbling run again. Glistening stone shot through with white veins of reflected floor light like shooting stars at midnight guided him towards his future.


    A Storm of two women, similar in build to Josefa, came into view around the hallway¡¯s slight curve. As they passed, the Bolt, helmet a discolored jumble of rainbow lightning, jerked her head at Josefa. The Thunderhead slowly nodded her head. Josefa stiffened in her ungainly gait and nodded back. The escort skidded to a stop and turned towards them, ¡°Arm Aquiles, please.¡± He waved his hand towards a black opening in the stone.


    ¡°Here? Not some central amphitheater, or court room, or something¡­  deeper in?¡± Aquiles questioned, a little out of breath now with their brisk pace.


    ¡°No. Aqui?,¡± the escort impatiently waved him on. The man never even told the monks his name.


    Aquiles obliged him. Then forgot himself and his peers and all the little details he¡¯d been enamored by moments ago. He forgot thought or to think at all. Blackness.


    Blaring trumpets and a roar like a thousand thunderclaps smote every muscle fiber and joint in his feeble body and tore the stolen air from his lungs to be returned to its rightful owner in the clouds. The earth cracked under him, swallowed him whole, and slammed together, dashing a faint remnant of his being among the rocks. Aquiles¡¯ stomach lurched into his throat, bile spilling between his teeth and leaking from his nose, and his heartbeat sounded war drums in his ears. Rolling clouds split and washed and illuminated by lightning of a godly sort, flashes so bright they threatened the mortality of eyes bearing their magnitude, and resonating thunder shot wind and reverberated the stone and earth in a barren country. Skull and bone and meat and skin ground under uncaring boots, pale hands razing the dead land. Mind and matter stretched and broke and snapped back together.


    Aquiles dropped to his knees and heaved spit and racking coughs from deep in his chest. The sickly-sweet ichor from this morning held no real substance to throw up. Throat-tearing coughs brought tears to his eyes. A voice spoke from the darkness, the thunderstorm he¡¯d seen and the caress of worn, worked hands on the young boy they raised. ¡°Socorra didn¡¯t fare much better when first we spoke. She prefers to speak over the distance now. Would you visit me in person more, Aquiles?¡±


    Joints and ligaments shifted under his too delicate skin, and he shook the feeling of being chained to a cold stone floor for a week without food or water or sunlight. ¡°Father, whatever you wish.¡± His voice was foreign to him. He bowed his head and worried talking to the Father might feel like this every time.


    ¡°I wish for what makes you happiest, mi hijo. Entering here can be an¡­ uncomfortable experience for some.¡± The voice seemed to pause, cool and calm and filled with a soothing depth, ¡°I was unaware you had a sibling, Aquiles.¡±


    ¡°No! No, Father. I have no siblings,¡± Aquiles responded frantically, then more carefully, ¡°Just this morning, I spoke with Socorra about it. A fluke, by your guidance. Has she spoken to you about the incident?¡±


    ¡°No, mi hijo. No, she has not.¡±


    Glaring lights flashed to life, searing Aquiles eyes, veins showing through his eyelids. He squeezed them tighter and raised his hand to cover his face.


    The Father, his voice ascended to the thunderstorm now, questioned his petulant child, ¡°Do you lie, Aquiles? Do you believe me a fool? I am the Father! I am the wind and the rain and¡­¡± The torrent slowly dwindled with the passing of the storm. The Father, now a voice of a young man, ¡°For millennia, we have watched over you. Raised you. Guided you. For us, you make yourselves seen. Learn to be men and women. Follow our guidance. We do not ask for worship, mi hijo. We do not need it.¡±


    Aquiles eyes were torn open. A lean, dark man enfouldered and cloaked in storm clouds stood before him. His hair was long, black, and tied with colorful cloth against his winds. A mask of green like the forest at twilight hid his features, its half closed eyes and frowning mouth, its eyebrows protruding with a caricature of worry, the lips too thick and cheeks too round. Bewildered, Aquiles noted the Father was shorter than he was. As the thought crossed his mind, the Father grew half his height again, and then more, and more. He towered over Aquiles, twenty paces tall now, the mask against a lit backdrop of nothing. Lightning from the Father¡¯s cloak of storms pierced Aquiles¡¯ heart, coursed through his body, threatened to shatter his bones and boil his blood. It held him rigid. His mouth opened to cry out in pain yet was silent. The Father drew in a mighty breath, the air in the room rushing to his whims, and his voice was La Terra itself, it was a thunderclap to topple pyramids.


    ¡°EVERY THUNDERSTORM IS OUR CHURCH WITHOUT WALLS! THEIR LIGHTNING SINGS OUR PRAISE! MOUNTAINS STUMBLE AT OUR CALL! AND THE VERY GROUND QUIVERS AT OUR RAGE!¡±


    ¡°Father! I do not lie!¡±


    Into the eye of the storm, all was still. The lightning was free of him. Father stood at his original height. His mask had tears on the cheeks now, eyes wide open. ¡°You don¡¯t have any siblings you say?¡± The storm around the Father seemed to dissipate, the mask fell away. Tears filled the eyes of a normal man, if not with a slight fullness to his cheeks and more angle to his eyes than normal, and he surged forward placing his hands on Aquiles shoulders. ¡°Maybe, there is still time to help us then. You could, both of you¡­¡± The Father¡¯s voice shook. Was it the Father¡¯s still?


    The Father¡¯s hands slipped from Aquiles¡¯ shoulders becoming harder, sharper, like claws, and storms brewed behind the god¡¯s head. His head hung for a second before he looked back into Aquiles¡¯ eyes. The mask had returned, this time with a toothy grin. ¡°Nice to meet you, Arm,¡± the god hummed. The grin flashed in an instant to a smile. ¡°Finally.¡± Every syllable sounded a mouthful. The all-illuminating light snapped back to darkness, and Aquiles stomach lurched. He passed out, not for the first time this week.


    Buenas noches, mi hijo.

 Chapter 7

    Chapter 7


    Buenas noches, mi hijo.


    Exquisite, warm pain caressed Arturo¡¯s joints with an intensity to bring tears to his eyes, and that was normal. Only this level of agony, these tears, they were different. The pain was less. So significantly less. His joints were stubborn, not drilled with a chisel, his skin a little sensitive and raw, not peeled back to expose bone and muscle, his feet a bit sore, not driven through with nails. Arturo just stood and breathed and sighed and stretched¡­ stretched out his soreness and it almost fled.


    What a feeling to not feel at all.


    Supple dirt shifted from under his heels, and he wiggled his painless toes in the cool earth. Arturo wrung his hands and popped his knuckles, something he hadn¡¯t been able to do in a year without blacking out. And most people still felt better than this every day. The Parents were sparing in their blessings. No, Arturo was not traveling to worship, to attend mass, to speak to the self-righteous monks. No. He took his pilgrimage for this. But he would stop taking them. For Valeria. This relief wasn¡¯t made for him, not always. He could take the pain. He hoped he could. The closer to the Capital they got, the more he reveled in this simple relief.


    The first leg of the trip had gone by without a hitch. Barto slept most of the way leaving the nice couple to go without his boyish charms for the whole day. Arturo breathed a light snort through his nose and smirked. The wagon line had stopped for the night on one of the first knolls on the way to the Capital. They were leaving the grasslands after eight days of travel, with as many days¡¯ worth of the identical beige green terrain he had called home, and began passing these little hills with smatterings of little trees. The mountains loomed in the distance, the short trek through the highlands of La Terra a comforting change in climate, and Arturo welcomed the change in scenery.


    The wagon ride had been characteristically awful. The bumps sent him into spasms and found him reassuring the nice couple that occupied Barto and Arturo¡¯s wagon that he was fine through his gasps and held back screams. It was all normal. Those days were a blur in agony, but Arturo got to sleep under the stars in peace when the wagons stopped. And he loved the pinpricks of light. He would trace the wandering stars that would meander across the sky every few minutes, white dots moving at a lazy pace from horizon to horizon. If he was lucky, he would catch one of the flashing stars, greenish in tone, and he would count the seconds it took for another small blink of the light, a harmony to the regular rhythm, and wonder as to what put it there. So, he made it through those days.


    Morning fires crackled with a hypnotizing warmth. Dry, hot days in the grasslands always meant frigid nights, and the sun was not yet high in the sky baking the vegetation and people to a crisp. An abuelita sat, hunched, flipping tortillas on a comal placed over one of the fires. More of the little old ladies sat around other fires doing the same thing, making breakfast for the weary travelers nearing their destination. This abuelita wore a white shawl with triangular, black stitchings in the heavy fabric, her hair pulled into a tight bun, leather sandals wrangling the swollen feet of a woman well-fed over many years. Arturo hoped she was happy.


    In a strong voice, she greeted Arturo, ¡°Buenos dias, nin?o.¡±


    ¡°Buenos d¨ªas, Do?a,¡± Arturo smiled his response.


    She gestured to a wicker basket with a loosely placed lid of the same material.  ¡°Tortillas,¡± she slowly pointed next to the basket at some white cloth tied in a bundle with string, ¡°y queso.¡±


    ¡°Gracias, Don?a.¡± Arturo ate the food happily. Thicker tortillas than he was accustomed to, but the cheese was crumbly and salty, and the food filling. The other pilgrims started waking up as he ate and relaxed by the fire. The old lady continued her work. Smash the masa into circles, slip it onto the comal, flip it, put it in the basket. Valeria¡¯s abuela had tried to teach him the technique, flattened dough in a delicate circle on her palm. Then she would wave her hand, and the tortilla would be there on the comal, smooth flat and toasting to a perfect slight char. He always managed to fold or tear them. The abuelita here had four more baskets filled to the brim with steaming food before Barto drug himself to the fire.


    ¡°Buenos dias, Barto,¡± Arturo greeted the man with a content sigh.


    ¡°We¡¯ll see,¡± Barto coughed in response.¡± Today¡¯s gonna be a hot one. Don¡¯t think we¡¯ll be very comfortable in the back of those things bumping down the road,¡± Barto jerked his head towards their wagon and spat.


    Arturo took a deep breath and pushed his lips into a line, ¡°Would you rather walk?¡±


    ¡°Now listen here you little-¡±


    ¡°Callete,¡± the don?a scolded Barto. She pointed a twisted finger at him and widened her eyes, daring him to say another word. These old women were such a treat on this journey.


    ¡°Arturo? I didn¡¯t realize you were coming with us on this one!¡±


    Arturo stretched to look behind himself, body refusing to give up the comfortable position he¡¯d taken up by the fire, stretched out in its tickling warmth. Two of his friends from town, Miguel and Antonio, walked up and sat down next to them by the fire. Barto growled at them like a mangy mutt.


    ¡°Oh, hey guys. Yeah, I was a little late packing and getting ready.¡± They stared at him expectingly. ¡°And you know its hard for me to move around the first leg of the trip. Dejame? pas.¡±


    ¡°Well, we¡¯re happy to see you here, amigo. We can hit the bars and drink all of their mezcal now! Que bueno,¡± Miguel replied, jovial jowls jumping with each word. The young man was charitably chubby, but more honestly portly, and he was every bit the life of every party, the glue of every click of friends of which he was the happiest part. People lit up at his generous smiles. Antonio was every bit the opposite. He was a whip of a man, as quiet as a mouse hiding from hawks in the stalks of grass about the sheep in the plains, but he never made trouble for anyone. And, when he did offer a quip rarer than gold, he could strike an entire group stupid with laughter without so much as a smirk. But most of the time, Antonio was quiet, so Arturo didn¡¯t push him to talk. Miguel¡¯s silent sidekick stared into the flames, not offering anything so much as a nod to his friends¡¯ conversation.


    ¡°Would you boys be quiet? I just woke up and my skull is trying to part ways with my brain!¡± Barto burped, his mouth full of food. The old lady watched him with a smirk on her face. Arturo grimaced instead and obliged the grumpy old man.


    ¡°Bien,¡± Arturo stood and nodded his friends over to the wagon a few paces away. Miguel, having just sat down, heaved himself to his feet, a great rush of wind exhaled from his lungs in a grunt of effort. Though, he didn¡¯t complain.


    They walked to lean on the wagon. Miguel continued their conversation, ¡°So, how¡¯s work been? I heard some of the trade might get messed up with that dye business going belly up.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been fine. All I¡¯ve heard was a Ministry man saying something about a tax.¡±


    ¡°Si?, the Ministry has to increase the taxes on the rest of us to make up for all the lost money from that one. Embezzling the Parents¡¯ money, I heard.¡±


    ¡°Que lastima,¡± Arturo sighed.


    ¡°Si?. By the Parents¡¯ guidance.¡±


    Arturo only nodded in response.


    ¡°You don¡¯t think the Parents correct to levy this tax?¡± The three of them turned in unison to see the big stranger from the pueblo astride a black horse. The woman wasn¡¯t with him.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t say anything like that. What are you doing on the pilgrimage? This is just for the townsfolk. Why don¡¯t you ride with your friend,¡± Arturo narrowed his eyes at the stranger. The man unnerved him, and he hoped he¡¯d seen the last of the stranger when he¡¯d left on the trip. Grayish eyes narrowed back, juxtaposed against a fake smile.


    ¡°I am from the Capital. Can¡¯t a traveler accompany this convoy to keep from loneliness on the road home?¡±


    Miguel tapped Arturo¡¯s shoulder, and whispered, ¡°Quien es eso?¡± Arturo didn¡¯t take his eyes from the stranger. The black horse snorted and clopped its massive hooves. The beast was at least five handspans larger than any breed back in the pueblo.


    ¡°I¡¯m a Ministry man,¡± the stranger spoke in reply to Miguel¡¯s question.


    ¡°I was asking Arturo.¡±


    The stranger sneered, ¡°Arturo didn¡¯t know. So, I informed you.¡±


    ¡°People from the Ministry are caring. They help us. You seem like a menace,¡± Arturo challenged.


    ¡°The Parents require many things done by their children. Like finding malcontents with their guidance,¡± the stranger responded, his voice a drawn sword. Arturo didn¡¯t like the idea of this stranger following them, Ministry man or not.


    ¡°Ride where you want, amigo. Just let us enjoy our trip,¡± said Arturo. The stranger¡¯s nose flared, and his horse snorted. He pulled on the reins and turned, guiding the horse through the camps, the heads of townsfolk turning to watch the black robed rider on his monstrous horse.


    ¡°Odd man,¡± Antonio had a quiet and clean voice.


    ¡°He had an odd woman with him too,¡± Arturo replied. ¡°What would the Ministry want with spooks like them? All I¡¯ve ever seen from the Parents¡¯ governors are helping hands and full sacks of food.¡±


    ¡°We ought to be more malcontent with said sacks. Its terrible,¡± Miguel added. Antonio turned cold eyes and stared Miguel down. ¡°Hey, I¡¯m just sayin¡¯.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t contribute to the conversation, Miguel.¡±


    ¡°Well, at least I actually have conversations.¡± The two men stared daggers at each other in the way only the best of friends, or maybe brothers, could. Miguel spoke again, ¡°He¡¯s one ugly puto. Uglier than that brute of a horse. Wonder if the woman is any better looking, huh?¡± He began nudging Antonio in the side. The skinny man just continued to stare Miguel down silently.


    ***


    Parallel lines seemed to converge over the horizon, the distant point of Arturo¡¯s home a nexus for his thoughts, the coming tide of relief a salve to soothe his aching bones. He looked down at his hands. They didn¡¯t hurt. Maybe they¡¯d hurt to someone without whatever plagued him, but they didn¡¯t hurt to him. It was a miracle. A blessing. Well, not the blessing of the Parents, but a blessing anyway. Wagon wheels creaked and shuddered, and dust billowed behind them and settled into the road to be picked up again on the morrow with some passing traveler or grain shipment or wool cart. The pueblos by the sea to the west could connect to the Capital by a Storm-powered rail. He wondered if this journey would be quicker on such a contraption.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    The air was wetter and the sun less oppressive this close to the mountains. They¡¯d covered a good distance during the day. Barto had said only a handful of extremely offensive things to the couple they rode with. Things like: ¡°She¡¯s a bit on the chubby side, why didn¡¯t you leave her back with la carnicera?¡± Or, ¡°Oh, she¡¯s only pregnant? That doesn¡¯t explain the chins.¡± Then most recently, ¡°A woman like you couldn¡¯t move fast enough to smack me.¡± Barto stared out at the wagon wheels with Arturo and nursed a swollen cheek.


    Arturo thought to alleviate the tension. He could never stand people being angry around him and had to fix it. ¡°You¡¯re really going to the Capital pregnant? Seems like an uncomfortable time,¡± he added a fake, little laugh to the end. To show he was being congenial. He often worried how interjecting silence would affect people.


    ¡°Oh, si,¡± the young woman replied in an amiable enough fashion. Good. Maybe her mood could improve. She continued, ¡°The accommodations haven¡¯t been a great bother.¡± Her gaze went past Arturo and swatted at Barto harder than her hand could. ¡°Anyway, the Father said they¡¯re twins.¡±


    Arturo froze, then, ¡°Twins! Verdad? That¡¯s amazing! By the Parents¡¯ guidance, what a blessing.¡±


    Barto spat and said, ¡°Probably Greatstorm monsters with that attit-¡±


    She raised her hand again, half standing in an instant, but Arturo smacked Barto¡¯s shoulder. The pregnant woman sat back down. Barto pouted and pressed his mouth shut, scraggly beard poking out. Her husband watched the interaction aloof, probably confident in her ability to fend for herself. So far, she¡¯d proven capable.


    ¡°Sorry about him. I don¡¯t normally have to deal with him around others.¡± Arturo glanced at Barto out of the corner of his eye. ¡°So, twins? A Storm. We haven¡¯t had one of those back home in years.¡±


    ¡°The Father¡¯s own bastard, a lot of weird things are happening around that town.¡±


    Arturo¡¯s heart skipped a beat, ¡°Would you stop?¡± The couple had no idea what he¡¯d done out on the plains. No one had. Barto was still a right puto.


    Barto raised his hands by his head, ¡°Just sayin¡¯.¡±


    Arturo lowered his eyes. ¡°Well, congratulations! You have been blessed and your offering blesses us.¡± He realized only he and Barto had been talking, the young woman¡¯s eyes darting between the both of them, a smile presented to avoid any more interaction than necessary.


    ¡°Gracias, amigo,¡± the man spoke with a guarded tone, ¡°What was your name again? I¡¯ve seen you around the pueblo obviously, but we haven¡¯t had any business or drinks that I can remember.¡±


    ¡°Si, me llamo Arturo. I¡¯ve seen you around too.¡±


    ¡°Arturo¡­ Right right, you¡¯re Fernando¡¯s boy. He always raised the prettiest sheep.¡±


    His chest hurt at that name. Fire and smoke filled his nostrils then disappeared. Arturo glanced up at the brim of his hat. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s me,¡± Arturo moved on quickly, ¡°so, will you be taking the Storm straight to the Ministry?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± the woman replied, ¡°we actually sent for an escort before this trip. They said they had taken on too many for the year. We will be going to the Monastery after all.¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s just like a normal pilgrimage then.¡± Arturo smiled at the couple, and admitted it was difficult to tell she was just pregnant. They both looked down at the woman¡¯s round stomach, and they were happy. So, he was happy for them.


    Arturo pictured the stranger riding off on his beast of a horse. ¡°You should tell everyone about your blessing at dinner tonight. It would make this trip that much more special.¡± The Parents¡¯ do not stand for endangering Storms. Whatever that man is, he submits to the Parents¡¯ guidance. All men do.


    ¡°Yes, I think we will,¡± they smiled into each other¡¯s eyes, and the man continued, ¡°we didn¡¯t get a chance to tell anyone but family back home. The Father told us too late.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure the babies will have an amazing time in the pyramid.,¡± Arturo paused, ¡°I never got your names?¡±


    ¡°Oh! Well, my name is Roberto. My wife¡­¡± Roberto ran his fingers through his wife¡¯s hair.


    ¡°Isabella,¡± Isabella said with a smile.


    ¡°Mucho gusto. I promise Barto was happy to meet you too.¡±


    Barto let out a grunt, ¡°Si?.¡±


    Smooth wood without splinters, or any other texture of any kind after suffering the touch of so many hands and feet, tickled at Arturo¡¯s desensitized fingers. He noticed the touches of everything he used to avoid with a near euphoric sense. He could sleep on a rock in the cold and be comfortable. The wagon rocked back and forth, and he pulled his knees to his chest. Grainy wood, soft dirt, and the smell of day-old tortillas embraced him. His eyes¡­ began to droop¡­ a clap of thunder, scarlet red warmth, and wetness slick between his fingers. The puma¡¯s head rolled to his feet and the eyes looked up at him. Bared fangs stained with red resonated with a distant voice.


    ¡°You, too. You are a liar.¡±


    Familiar. The presence? Terrifying. Arturo jolted, and Robert and Isabella jumped at the sudden movement. ¡°Perdon,¡± Arturo breathed a half-hearted laugh. ¡°I¡¯m gonna walk alongside for a little while. Save my sleep for the Mother.¡± Arturo stood and hopped to the ground out of the back of the wagon. He enjoyed the mobility of his lessened agonies. He shook his head trying to dispel the image of the talking cat''s head. The warmth spread in his hand, and it sickened him to find it comforting.


    Mud squelched under his boots as Arturo hobbled along the wagon. He wasn¡¯t used to the movement and got out of breath quickly. Hooves clopped up from behind him. ¡°Young men like you shouldn¡¯t be so winded with such simple exercise.¡± Arturo closed his eyes and sighed at this unfortunately familiar voice.


    ¡°Do you want my hat or something? You sure seem interested in me.¡±


    The gray stranger¡¯s eyes widened. Was that rage or fear? What would this brute have to be afraid of? ¡°I spoke with many people in the town and on this journey. Why do you think you¡¯re special?¡±


    ¡°A god does speak to me every night before I go to bed,¡± Arturo smirked at the man.


    ¡°Petulant countrymen!¡± Rage it was. Arturo clenched his fist, his fingernails bit into his palm, and it felt good.


    ¡°Hey what¡¯s this talk of countrymen?¡± Miguel¡¯s happily round mass bounced towards them, wagons leaning to-and-fro with the roll of the land. ¡°We¡¯re one people, aren¡¯t we? Don¡¯t have to put each other down like that,¡± he had a less than happy expression on his face. ¡°The Parents don¡¯t like their children fighting, amigo. You want to follow their guidance, don¡¯t you? Ministry man?¡± Other people around the camp began looking in their direction. The stranger fixed his gaze on Arturo. What did this grey freak want?


    ¡°Have a good pilgrimage.¡± The stranger¡¯s voice ground threw his teeth like a rock bouncing down a cliff in the summer rains of the mountains.


    ¡°Thank you, I believe we will.¡± Arturo attempted to return an angry glare. He imagined his face was anything but intimidating. Yet, the stranger allowed the slightest bit of worry to touch his eyes. Arturo felt the hair on the back of his neck stand, and the air smelled of rain. There were no clouds in the sky. The gray man yanked the reins on his horse and bolted away.


    ¡°I¡¯m really glad you guys are here,¡± Arturo breathed out heavily.


    ¡°No problem,¡± Antonio intoned.


    ¡°The woman riding with Barto and I, Isabella, she¡¯s pregnant with twins. I was terrified that guy would start trouble and get her hurt. Can you imagine? The Father could come down from his pyramid and dash our heads against the rocks just like¡­¡± Arturo swallowed, fear lodged in his throat, but his companions seemed unfazed.


    ¡°Get out! Really? It''s been what, five? Six years since our last Storm back home?¡± Miguel more than made up for Antonio¡¯s lacking enthusiasm. ¡°Well, the coward rode off,¡± then he continued, dripping confidence, ¡°smartest thing he¡¯s ever done.¡±


    ¡°Six years. My cousin gave birth for the Parents. Bless them,¡± Antonio responded bluntly.


    Miguel scratched at his head, ¡°Right, yeah. You¡¯d think I¡¯d remember that, huh? Well. Felicidades. Bless them.¡±


    Arturo stared off after the stranger, ¡°Bless them.¡±


    The convoy made camp for the night under the shadows of mountains upon a small swell of land among the hills. The road wound past their chosen knoll and on to the east towards the mountains, La Valle de Las Tormentas, and the Capital. Reaching peaks scratched the sky and split the clouds, tall as the tops of the Parents¡¯ thunderstorms, and lush with the rain and deluge and running mud that came with them. The grasslands and plains of Arturo¡¯s home suffered the thunderstorms, clouds brewing in the west over water and rainforest, torrential downpours and fierce winds. Fronts of curved and churning clouds threw themselves across the land and weakened as they trekked across La Terra. Then, the storms slowed to a stop over the mountains and draped a cloak of rain and fog over the sharp rocks and rolling hills of the highlands. Farmers here had beautiful crops. And the masa in the Capital made the best tortillas Arturo had ever eaten as a result. His stomach rumbled.


    The people of his pueblo were accustomed to the vastly different landscapes on these pilgrimages. In two short weeks the scenery molded into something foreign, but the cooking of the don?as was as consistent as Barto¡¯s mood. The group of ladies huddled around a fire gossiping and doling out bowls of mole with pork and rice. Thick, almost sweet, and salty sauce dripped down Arturo¡¯s chin, a perfect companion for the scenery.


    ¡°Only a day more, and we should be in the Capital tomorrow afternoon,¡± Barto shambled over from the pot of food and plopped down among the young men. ¡°Good thing too. My bony backside can¡¯t take that bumping wagon anymore.¡±


    ¡°Good luck with those Monastery pews then, Barto,¡± Miguel laughed.


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to no mass, Father¡¯s eyes or not. I¡¯m gonna eat tacos and drink cerveza in the market. Maybe some single old ladies will keep company.¡± He smiled over his shoulder at the don?as and their pot of mole?. A few actually giggled and waved. Antonio coughed and gagged on his food while Miguel slapped his back.


    ¡°Que linda,¡± Arturo shook his head and laughed at it all.


    Just as the crabby old man scooped some sauce onto a leftover tortilla, the ground began to shake. Wagons rattled and people around the several campfires swung their heads about, frantic jerks of their eyes in every direction. A rumble slowly resolved into the thunder of hooves. The people of the pilgrimage walked to the edge of their little encampment and watched the road.


    Two dozen riders galloped past, black robes with backs hunched, a similar dress and look to the stranger. They rode out into the country on the road the convoy came in on, so there was no telling where they were headed. The road branched at least twenty times heading in that direction. Merchants took advantage of the difficult route to sell their wares at exorbitant prices the more rural their surroundings became because the people living in that land could hardly remember even the first few turns to make it to the Capital. Luckily, the Monastery sent the wagon drivers.


    Miguel walked up behind Arturo and spoke with a quiver in his voice, ¡°They wouldn¡¯t be heading back home, would they?¡±


    ¡°No way to tell. What would they have to do back there, anyway? They¡¯re Ministry men, and the officiants already delivered all the supplies,¡± Arturo responded cooly and smiled at the trio of men watching the riders fade into the distance. ¡°And besides, the trouble is all here.¡± That received a grunt from Barto, but then again, most things did. Arturo shoved Miguel on the shoulder and forced a laugh.


    ¡°Gotta be from the Ministry. Wouldn¡¯t be the Monastery. The monks wear brown robes with cords on their waist,¡± Barto growled from behind.


    Arturo smirked, ¡°What would you know about the monks? You just talk to poor old women in the streets!¡±


    ¡°Well, what¡¯s the Ministry doing sending riders this far? They don¡¯t do that kind of stuff unless there¡¯s trouble,¡± Miguel¡¯s voice quivered on.


    ¡°Miguel, amigo, they send people out to our pueblo all the time,¡± Arturo tried convincing Miguel as he did the same with himself.


    ¡°Si?! Soft men and women with wagons loaded with food. Not a squad of black riders and beasts!¡±


    ¡°Look, just relax, amigo. We can¡¯t do anything, and the people that need help clearly called for it already. Trouble solved.¡± Arturo gestured at the riders disappearing into the distance. ¡°Sit and eat, Miguel. We¡¯re almost to the Capital!¡± He walked back to his seat by the fire and took up his remaining mole. Antonio still sat there, unbothered. Miguel stood watching the riders disappear over the horizon, slowly shaking his head. Face in his bowl trying to avoid the dust cloud billowing behind those horses, Arturo wished people could just let things go. The Ministry was always there to help. This was a little odd, yes, but it''s not like they were out in the country hurting people. Miguel shook his head and wandered off, and Antonio shoved to his feet and following his rotund companion.


    ¡°Tell us¡­ THE TRUTH!¡±


    A rasping voice rattled Arturo¡¯s head, and the puma¡¯s head rolled to his feet at the fire, a second attempt at trying to spill Arturo¡¯s food all over himself. The eyes were far too alive, alive with a heat of their own, raging against him, boring holes in Arturo¡¯s skin as phantom claws raked at his chest. He gasped.


    ¡°TELL US!¡±


    Blood splattered all over his clothes and face. The warmth of it, it should make Arturo gag. Instead, it soothed him from the vision. He jerked and realized the real warmth was his feet far too close to the fire. He glanced at Barto who had stopped eating. The man held the same look of fear that day Arturo woke from his injuries. ¡°You alright, nin?o?¡±


    ¡°Si?, estoy bien.¡±


    ¡°Good, let¡¯s keep it that way.¡±


    Arturo shifted and stood. He noticed two small craters in the dust by his hands and covered them over with his feet as he walked away. Fresh pain revolted in his knuckles and began to fade. ¡°I was just nodding off. I¡¯m fine.¡±


    Arturo walked back to the wagon. Roberto and Isabella were eating by a fire with a group gathered around them. It seemed they had spread their news to the people of the convoy. Good. The gathering of a Storm was always good news. Always.


    He climbed into the darkness of the wagon. The whisper of voices and the crackling of fire lulled Arturo to sleep, and despite a clear sky overhead, thunder rumbled in Arturo¡¯s ears and shook from his hands.


    Buenas noches, mi hijo.

 Chapter 8

    Chapter 8


    Buenos dias, mi hijo.


    Aquiles¡¯ eyes creaked open in a dark room. His candle remained unlit in the corner. The familiar shy gloom of the moon through his window was absent this morning. The Mother¡¯s greeting seemed absent its familiar warmth, and with an absent mind, he ran through the familiar phases and dates and confirmed the moon was new.


    Again, he found himself in his room after passing out. Aquiles had certainly claimed his fair share of black-outs and pass-outs and knock-outs over the past days. It was unbecoming of the apprentice Arm of Us. This new position of authority bade him to speak with the Father, to liaison between the Ministry and the Monastery, but it seemed he might have to add one-on-one training to the list, elevating a Young One to liaison his unconscious body from some random spot in the pyramid to his bed every night.


    ¡°Que? patetico,¡± Aquiles spat at himself. A pair of slippers mocked him from the side of his bed. He shoved his right foot in the right slipper, then missed with the left. Snatching the uncooperative footwear from the ground, he shouted and flung the slipper out of his window, heaving breath in a rage. Aquiles realized what he did and cringed at himself, wincing as he looked at the slipper bounce down the sloped stone to the next terrace of the Monastery. No angry sounds came from below.


    The pair of boots he wore to the Ministry yesterday were placed neatly next to the rest of his clothes. Boots would work today in training as well as any. Aquiles could not wait to swing a sword and get his anger and frustrations out of his mind, forging them into ringing metal. What happening to him? He snatched fresh robes from his wardrobe. He was no Bolt. Socorra must have saved him. What was wrong with the Father? The man¡­ Man? God. The Father was erratic, and that was unsettling.


    ¡°Stop pitying yourself. Just work up a sweat, then talk to Socorra about all of this,¡± Aquiles hissed then tightened the cord around his waist. He bent to pick up the soiled robes from his traipsing about the Capital and noticed several vials of the sweet ichor. Maybe that fire in his veins could make him feel better. ¡°Nope. Nope. I¡¯m not a Bolt. That is blasphemous, I have no brother.¡± Why would it have to be a brother? It could be a sister. ¡°Or sister. Or any siblings at all.¡± By the Father¡¯s good graces, he was correcting himself out loud. He was unraveling quicker than a decade old robe spun by a shaky handed cripple. Aquiles laced his boots tightly for a vigorous training session and looked out the window. His voice shook, ¡°Good Morning, Mother.¡± He turned and raced to the door.


    Light from the hallway spilled through his door, yanked open haphazardly, before he caught himself and cast a wary eye in both directions of the hall. Young Ones scuttled about their business as usual. No Juan. Nor Other Juan. No Josefa, nor Horacio. Best of all, no Socorra. He would approach and talk to her when his head was clear. Best avoid the annoying, hag, no, respectful Child, until his mind and emotions were settled. The drain of the last day pulled at his eyelids and scratched at his unresponsive limbs. He glanced back at the vials of ichor. No, not a Bolt.


    Empty stomach and a roiling, boiling mind, Aquiles stepped gingerly through the halls, the occasional Young One pausing their own treks in trepidation to bow and say, ¡°Arm of Us.¡± The title didn¡¯t titillate him anymore. Training would be done on an empty stomach today. Maybe his mind could follow his gut¡¯s direction. Hunger could be a useful sensation, and Aquiles often found himself light and sharp as steel while working on an empty stomach. His boots made soft thumps as he sauntered down the hallway towards the training yard. A pang of anxiety ran through him as he thought of all the missed classes from the last couple days. Classes be tossed to the wind, he was trying to come into his new role and had bigger things to think about.


    The cord on his robes squeezed just below his stomach as Aquiles lifted his shoulders and raised his chin and threw that shrewd judgment he was so proud of casting out into his world. It was not arrogance as Horacio claimed. Aquiles was confident. He knew himself better than anyone. Young Ones¡¯ heads bowed at his passing, afraid to meet his eye. As they should, he was the new Arm.


    Aquiles made his way unbidden through the main square and past Young Ones sat in a circle around a thumb of a Child pointing and lecturing about the pyramid structure. Each of their little faces were drowsy with sleep, and the droning Child - not noticing, but more likely not caring - gestured about herself and at the stairs and at the gently sloping walls and at the stone and dirt. Rain or shine, the Parents¡¯ hour or sun-up, the Children could lecture. Aquiles made his way into the ready room. With a practiced hand, he undid the knot on the cord around his waist and hung his robe on the wall. The other hangers reflected torchlight, empty, and dawn¡¯s cool light creeped down from the dirt ramp up to the training ground.


    Corded, starved muscles stretched, complained, then sighed in relief as Aquiles swung his arms in circles about his shoulders. He would do a quick warmup before drilling then get into some throwing knife work. His neglect of the ranged weapons had been collateral in pursuing mastery of the sword. But really, he should be a master in all these weapons. He was naturally better than-


    The hair on the back of his neck stood up.


    Aquiles dropped and spun his foot in a circle connecting with the back of his attacker¡¯s ankles. He jumped onto the fallen man, and by the Father¡¯s might was he big. Ay.


    ¡°Perdon, Aquiles,¡± Other Juan grunted up at him. The man¡¯s great smashed in mountain side of a face and rock tumble of teeth looked back up at him.


    ¡°Hola, Aquiles. Buenos dias,¡± Juan rumbled from just beyond them. He spoke as if every word was a struggle to remember. Deep and stupid voices. Aquiles¡¯ irritation had been slowly brewing after a thorough degassing of distractions since he¡¯d presumably taken on some blessing. He pushed himself off Other Juan, this one had the uglier and more crooked nose, to stand and run his fingers through his short, bristly hair.


    ¡°How did you know to find me here?¡± He glared at Juan. Juan stared back blankly. Aquiles whipped his head to look down at Other Juan, ¡°Do you two know anything at all?¡± Other Juan was digging fingernails into his teeth, not paying attention. Aquiles kicked his thigh, ¡°Oaf! Was it Socorra?¡± Other Juan, barely noticing the kick, smiled, and nodded at Socorra¡¯s name. ¡°Of course. Well. Please leave.¡± Aquiles trudged up the ramp and over to the weapons rack.


    A veritable earthquake rung the dirt of the floor and the ramp like a bell in a mission tower as the bull of a man heaved himself to his feet, though it really was quite graceful, but Aquiles ignored that. Sighing, he stopped his trudge and looked to the sky with eyes unseeing behind tightly bound eyelids hoping this affront to dedication to fade away, and called, ¡°Pendejos! Vete! Please! Leave!¡± He turned then, dropping his arms to his side, letting them flop loose and heavy. And the twins just stood there. Staring at him. Heads cocked like lost puppies. Other Juan was still smiling. Maybe it was time to practice throwing knives now. Aquiles lunged for the rack and grabbed one of the small blades with a red tassel around the hilt. ¡°Leave!¡± He hurled the knife, one of his better throws really, hilt-over-blade, directly at the stupid brute¡¯s stupid face.


    A light burst of air and a small pop echoed across the training ground. Juan¡¯s shirt fluttered near his shoulder. He did not budge. The knife lodged itself between two stones of the pyramid instead of between Other Juan¡¯s eyes. ¡°Unfortunate.¡± Aquiles hadn¡¯t really expected to land a blow like that, even on the worst Storm. So, Juan was the Thunderhead in this odd pairing. Other Juan hadn¡¯t flinched and kept on smiling. These two trusted each other, and Juan hadn¡¯t used his hands like most Thunderheads would attempt. The best trained should be comfortable pushing thunder from anywhere on their body, or so he¡¯d been told. He hadn¡¯t seen truly trained Storms in action until Emiliano and his brother were beating his culo. Aquiles turned and pushed up his bottom lip, slightly impressed. Best to keep it hidden.


    Still, he had to quell a surge of anger. Looking back, he scolded, ¡°Please don¡¯t just stand and watch me. It makes me very uncomfortable.¡± In truth, an audience was invigorating and led him to try more daring and impressive feats, but these two were unnerving with those glassy stares. And, at that thought, their eyes seemed to focus, and Juan nodded his head in respect. Then, they turned to each other¡­ and began to dance.


    It was a slow dance, careful and deliberate, and loving. The brothers moved in tandem, Juan¡¯s foot stepping back and Other Juan¡¯s foot landing where his brother¡¯s had left, attention bereft of Aquiles ever having existed. One hand pushed into the other, the other fell back. And they moved like that, together. A great circle around the training ground was drawn by shifting and light feet, toes drawing a slow branching of lightning in the sand, some earthly representation of the skies above capturing all the majesty of the gods and their blessings. Air began to buffet the ground around Juan¡¯s feet. Stalks of grass in little islands of green across the training ground began to sway. Aquiles breathed in the smell of rain. Little cracks and snaps of sound whispered in his ears. The brothers¡¯ held each other¡¯s gaze, knowing and understanding passing between them, a life¡¯s knowledge passed without words. The air around them distorted, standing white mist encircling them. Aquiles saw arcs of lightning jumping between Other Juan¡¯s fingers, between his arms and torso, between his teeth as he breathed heavily.


    These brothers hadn¡¯t trained together. No. They ate, slept, and thought the same things since they could walk. People did not move like this, but these giants did. And for the first time, Aquiles understood the blessings of the Parents.


    He had seen the Storm.


    The twins completed a circuit then closed their eyes and centered themselves with deep breaths. Other Juan turned to Aquiles and smiled. He gestured at the sword rack, and Aquiles turned his head to look at the brutish metal hanging there waiting for clumsy hands and feet to swing it at practice dummies. If he was unnerved before, now he was embarrassed. No, he could show these two his own sort of dance, something to clear his mind of the awe. Sunlight broke the clouds and bathed him in warmth. A renewed eye showed him the truth of the metal before him.


    The swords of the monks were straight, narrow, and light. The tip whistled with sweeps; the handguard hummed with strikes. Child Ronaldo wrote poems with ink and quill, Aquiles wrote them with slicing metal in the air. Sweep up, pull hand back to ear, toes point into the dirt, and slide the foot forward under the handguard. Strike. The flexible blades always gave away the wielder¡¯s unease or inexperience. For Aquiles, they told of his devotion. Flexing only into movements and holding still with his arms outstretched. He went through one of his forms, quite a taxing choice, this one requiring many lunges and jumps and sidesteps. The sword was held only in his right hand, the guard encompassing his knuckles, narrow blade attaching to the shining hemisphere around his hand. Only his right hand, yes, but swordsmanship was always about both hands. Both hands, his hips, his shoulders, his eyes. Everything. He supposed the Storms learned to use their whole bodies to their advantage too.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    A bead of sweat dropped from Aquiles¡¯ hair and down his face. He looked over after a deep lunge to see if the twins were still watching. They were, bodies carved from the pyramid stones, striking and still.


    After a half hour of trading forms with the twins, Aquiles grew tired. ¡°Pue?s. That¡¯s all I have in me for the moment,¡± Aquiles sighed and put the sword back. His hunger was getting the better of him, and his head rush of anxiety and emotion had long since faded.


    ¡°Esta? bien!¡± Other Juan said with a child¡¯s enthusiasm. Then, the two brothers faced each other once more, ostensibly for more training.


    ¡°You stay out here if you like. I¡¯m going inside to break my fast. Please do not follow me.¡±


    Ignoring him, they took a step apart, turned away, then shot back around with hands outstretched. Thick, white-hot lightning ignited in Other Juan¡¯s palm. A wall of white and sound blasted from Juan.


    ¡°NO!¡± Aquiles hadn¡¯t meant to scream.


    The white wall engulfed Other Juan and passed harmlessly around him. The lightning veered towards the right of Juan and struck the knife still sticking in the stone wall. It turned white hot in an instant. Aquiles looked down at his outstretched hand. Embarrassed, he wiped his forehead. The brothers hadn¡¯t noticed. He felt a deep sense of grief. No one had ever looked at him the way the brothers looked at each other. Was he doing something wrong? Would he never have that connection? Aquiles shook his head, and sweat, not tears, flung to the ground.


    The smell of the rain still lingered in the air. Aquile¡¯ recalled the feelings when a bolt arced from his palm towards Jorge. It didn¡¯t seem natural. The twins made their powers look natural. Aquiles¡¯ experience could not be the same thing. He took up the sword again now with reinvigorated thoughts to be stripped by intensive labor. The sword whistled with his continued drilling. Two men, expressions as soft as their unfortunate visages would allow, watched him practice now in earnest. They seemed intrigued. He performed a thrust into a spinning leap sideways, dodging the phantom counterattack. An outline of an opponent cracked its neck and flexed in the background, in the walls, in the dirt. The man moved as a shadow, anticipating Aquiles¡¯ every move.


    He danced across the grounds becoming like fluid, like air, swaying like the grass. This felt natural. Steel and arm. He caught glimpses of the twins¡¯ reactions. Raised eyebrows at certain movements and awed smiles. Storms could be so powerful yet still fall for the ingenuity of a simple man. Well, not simple, Aquiles was a rather impressive swordsman if not quite a master; but he enjoyed the sentiment, nonetheless.


    Jabs and swipes and feigns came from his phantom at a fever pitch, and Aquiles ducked and dove and parried the unreal blade and struck back. Finally, with no other possibility but a draw, Aquiles took the phantom back into himself with a deep breath of air. He turned back to the twins to boast and noticed Socorra stooped between them. Her wrinkled lips curled in a smirk. His innards revolted, and with a wince he said, ¡°Child, I was just working the sword to start my day.¡±


    ¡°An awfully flowery work, verdad?¡±


    ¡°I can get caught up in the drills, Child. The sword is a comfort.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯ve been rather uncomfortable these past days?¡±


    Of course he had. ¡°I¡¯ve just needed to adjust to my new position.¡±


    Socorra¡¯s smirk turned to a grin. ¡°I understand some of what you¡¯re going through, Arm of Us. I remember the first time I stepped into the Father¡¯s hall. It was like being juiced and mixed into salsa. Then, he takes you and mushes you back together like broken pottery.¡± She shivered, ¡°I tend to make my conveyances with him from my own room and bed now. Mucho ma?s comodo.¡±


    ¡°He said that. How can you talk over the distance?¡±


    ¡°It''s just he now, hmm? How does the Mother speak to us every morning and night?¡± Apparently Aquiles poorly hid his displeased expression, and so she sighed and continued, ¡°The Father thinks at us¡­ I think back.¡±


    ¡°It cannot be that simple.¡±


    ¡°You try it next time, and tell me how simple it is, pendejo.¡± Socorra took a step forward and stood right between the mountainous duo. ¡°We all have different paths in life, Aquiles. You are a dedicated and passionate man, and you are difficult with yourself¡­ and others. Please. Treat yourself with the same dutiful view you hold of your place here. You¡¯re not just the new Arm. You are a memory to someone. You are someone¡¯s future.¡± She looked up at Juan and Other Juan. She barely reached their hips. ¡°Bueno?¡±


    Tears were held behind a wall in his eyes. He clenched his jaw. Where had that sudden genuineness come from? How had she known? Aquiles jerked his head in response, ¡°Si?. Gracias.¡±


    Socorra kept that knowing smirk, and the Juans just smiled at him.


    Something else now was on Aquiles¡¯ more academic side of his mind, a side he didn¡¯t often give in to save for the Parents and the stars. ¡°Those two did a little dance earlier. It ended rather explosively, but they didn¡¯t affect each other. How was that possible?¡±


    Socorra¡¯s smirk turned to a smile, more malicious than amused. She made a sign of deference to Juan and bowed her head. He stuttered like rocks bouncing down a cliff, ¡°Es¡­ es mi hermano.¡± He gestured nervously at Other Juan.


    ¡°Si?,¡± the Bolt replied simply.


    ¡°Great! That explains it, gracias.¡±


    ¡°A Storm¡¯s powers don¡¯t work on each other like they do everything else,¡± Socorra paused then added, ¡°or everyone else.¡±


    She looked at Juan and jerked her head at his brother. Juan punched the air and a circular shockwave shot at his twin. It split around Other Juan, and the two halves collided with the stone behind. She jerked her head at Other Juan then, and he punched his brother in the gut. Juan bent over roaring with laughter in between coughs that could produce a lung.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t work on the normal stuff though,¡± Socorra barked a laugh as well. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, you¡¯ll learn more with time. Especially, if you¡¯re to oversee their training. Which is kind of your job.¡±


    ¡°But I¡¯m not part of a Storm.¡±


    ¡°Of course you¡¯re not. You speak with Father, and you will heed his calls. You¡¯re part of something greater. You will learn, Arm of Us. Every person with this station before you, since the Parents built this city and settled La Terra itself, has learned.¡±


    How grandiose of her. A bit of real confidence renewed, he bowed and replied, ¡°Then so will I, by the Parents¡¯ guidance.¡±


    Socorra turned and walked down the ramp; the smile never left her face. She called out without turning, ¡°By the way, we have pilgrims in town for mass, by the Parents¡¯ guidance. That¡¯s your job now too, ha!¡±


    Juan and Other Juan were taking turns punching each other in the gut. They were retching and laughing and coughing.


    ¡°Would you two cut it out?! Callete!¡± Socorra grabbed them by the ears and hauled them to their feet.


    Other Juan straightened, tears running down his face and choking back chuckles, ¡°Es mi hermano.¡±


    Aquiles sighed, ¡°Yes, I know he¡¯s your brother.¡± At least it was just these two and not the witch Josefa. She made his skin crawl. He wiped the dirt gathered about his ankles and feet from his practice and dressed himself in the ready room. The twins lumbered on into the pyramid. New roles and responsibilities. Breakfast called to him, and the mess hall was answering. He could find Child Emilia to help him prepare for the mass. She would be giving a gardening lecture at the pyramid peak by this time of day. Emilia could help in getting the mass in order, by the Parents¡¯ guidance. In fact, she held the actual copy of the Parents¡¯ Guidance for mass. All of the calls and answers were laid out and color coded. Aquiles was as devout a Child as anyone, he literally spoke to the Father yesterday; but he did not find it appealing or necessary to memorize the book.


    After a short walk and a brief meal, warm fueling food sat in his stomach, his muscles coming back to life. Cold spring water from the mountains wet his lips, and the ancient stone stairs bore the weight of him as his shoulders and chest compressed and heaved under the burden of his responsibilities, his worries. Aquiles pondered the conversation with the Father. A tide of Young Ones broke around his stride, hands clasped behind his back. ¡°Arm of Us!¡± High pitched and terrified of their superior. He smiled and nodded at a few. What did the Father mean Aquiles could help? Help who with what? And where did that outburst about lies and deception come from? At least he didn¡¯t have any more odd lightning incidents.


    A quick glance around confirmed he was alone on the stairs. The Young Ones had passed, and everyone else was little ants walking the main square as he looked over the stair handrail. Aquiles kept walking with hands clasped behind him, and he concentrated. Just one spark between his fingers. He stuck his index fingers straight out behind him.


    ¡°Hola, Aquiles!¡± Child Emilia cheered as she bolted down the stairs. That tide of Young Ones must¡¯ve been her class hurrying to their next lesson.


    Pop.


    Aquiles¡¯ heart stopped in his chest and his foot froze midstep. He flinched and tried to recover, ¡°Did you hear something, Child Emilia?¡±


    ¡°Yes, maybe a little pop. Probably just flaking stone hitting the stairs,¡± she slapped the wall of the pyramid, ¡°this old thing is coming apart, huh?¡± She smiled and, very clearly, fake laughed. A bead of sweat fell down her temple. By the Father¡¯s might, she was more nervous than he was after almost getting caught. Getting caught creating lightning.


    The young, bubbly woman only reached his chest, pale skin glistening in the lamplight. She¡¯d really worked up a sweat. Odd girl.


    He responded, relieved she hadn¡¯t figured out what had happened, ¡°Yes Child, maybe we can try to get more attention paid to our home.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ha, well, uhhhh. I¡¯ll let you continue your walk, Arm of Us.¡± She flew past him, hair bobbing in a bun.


    ¡°Actually, I was walking up to see you¡­ amiga,¡± he called after her. That last part felt wrong. Too personal. He didn¡¯t know how people talked like that.


    Emilia nearly tumbled down the steps trying to stop. She turned and squeaked, ¡°Verdad?¡± Then, she cleared her throat and spoke with slightly more control, ¡°How can I help you?¡±


    ¡°Child Socorra has instructed me to lead the pilgrim¡¯s mass tomorrow as part of my duties as the Arm of Us. I know you were bestowed the Parents¡¯ Guidance used in mass as part of your duties as a newly raised Child.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, I was! How odd that Child Socorra, just yesterday, told me to refurbish the bindings. She said I would be helping someone transcribe.¡±


    Aquiles clenched his jaw and tried not to react too strongly. That old puta couldn¡¯t just leave him be for one day. Would he turn so insufferable over the years? Doubtful. ¡°Well, what a surprising turn of events,¡± Aquiles forced through his clenched teeth.


    ¡°Would- would you like me to transcribe you the- the dialogue, Aquiles?¡± Emilia nearly choked getting her question out.


    Aquiles faked a smile and nodded his head. ¡°That would be fantastic.¡± His jaw ached, and his teeth threatened to crack.


    ¡°Que? bueno! Follow me.¡±


    Emilia led him to her room and transcribed the much-memorized monk-pilgrim dialogue. She threw in much of her own nervous and rapid explanations on what vegetables were in season. Agave from the countryside was brought by loads of wagons to the Capital this time of year. He could¡¯ve used some tequila for his developing headache, not that he¡¯d ever actually drink the stuff. The girl¡¯s incessant chattering rattled his brain. He could hear how dry her throat was, and it made his skin crawl.


    After spending the rest of the day and into the night waiting for Emilia to finish, he thanked her and made it back to his room where he arranged his clothes for the morning. Paper, slightly wet with ink, reflected the moonlight on his desk. Was the flowery handwriting and embellishment necessary for his uses tomorrow? ¡°Yes, Arm of Us. The Parents expect their Children to handle the Guidance with grace,¡± he mocked to himself then felt ashamed. He was just trying to distract himself with complaints from the feeling of a bolt passing between his fingertips. A bolt he had, indeed, made on his own.


    Pop.


    Aquiles laid his head down and went to sleep.


    Buenas noches, mi hijo.

 Chapter 9

    Chapter 9


    Buenos dias, mi hijo.


    Arturo woke to a harmony of the Mother¡¯s warmth and his ever-present companion¡¯s grating snore, a song of his life in the plains with the bleats of sheep, and yet, that terrible undercurrent of pain, the melody of him, had vanished. The back of the wagon felt cramped and stuffy. All the drivers got together and decided their going was too slow and that the convoy would have to drive on through the night. Urgency, coupled with a nervousness produced by the black riders from the afternoon before, hung heavy and humid over the hardwood floors of the wagons and about the darting eyes of the horses pulling them. The animals were spooked.


    Relief had fled to leave nothing in its place. How weird to feel nothing in his stubborn hands and feet, in his tired joints and bones. His palm brushed the smooth grain in the wagon floor, and Arturo felt the grain, only the grain. Mind freed from an interminable focus, Arturo¡¯s thoughts wandered as he slipped on his father¡¯s hat and climbed over the expecting couple and plopped down to the ground at the back of the wagon.


    Roberto kept a protective arm around his wife, hand on her belly, even in his sleep. And to think, the man would just give up his children to the Monastery for nothing. Arturo felt the Mother¡¯s voice ringing in his ear. Well, not for nothing, of course. But just like that? Roberto would never see them grow to laugh and to learn and to cry and to make messes and to love and to live. An empty home. Perhaps they would just have more kids. Would Roberto¡¯s Storm garner a spark of the love his unconscious hand displayed now once he and his wife had forgotten their blessed children¡¯s faces? He¡¯d never see his own nin?os grown. Yet, his unknowing mind cared for them so dearly. The Parents¡¯ blessing bestowed upon those unborn babies, and it was their destiny to never know their own mother and father.


    Tears dripped down Arturo¡¯s cheeks, and he wiped them away then turned to the fires in the camp. The air was thick with the aroma of charring wood and meat. All the abuelitas sat around their respective fires, stirring pots and flipping tortillas and smiling at memories unseen. They likely did the same on the road as they did back home. ¡°Desayuno,¡± the closest old lady grunted to him without looking.


    ¡°Gracias, don?a.¡±


    She gestured a shaking hand, fingers thick with calluses built against the heat of comals over the years, ¡°Caf¨¦.¡± A thin, tall pot bubbled at the edge of the fire; edges chipped with the years of waking people to the work of their day.


    ¡°Gracias, don?a.¡±


    ¡°De nada,¡± she replied, the consonants gummy in her mouth and her voice soft in his ears. As Arturo took a seat, the wrinkled woman, clad in colorful fabrics with a woven shawl draped over her shoulders, braided thick and gray hair draped over that, deftly rolled chicken in tortillas and ladled red sauce over the top. Was she the same one as the day before? He was fairly certain the women were making rounds to cook food for each wagon. Their faces had begun to blend together. She handed him the steaming plate. Arturo closed his eyes and inhaled the mingling smells. Tomate and chile and the limon with the charred chicken and tortillas. He too made enchiladas for breakfast when he was home. At least, when he wasn¡¯t with Valeria at Olina¡¯s. His heart ached at the thought of Valeria sitting back in her home with her sick abuela trying to make ends meet. Arturo wrung his hands and felt nothing.


    He sat with closed eyes and a content hum in his throat, his nose filled again, and the enchiladas smelled like blood and dirt. His eyes snapped open, and he stared at the plate and at his bloody hands and his ruined chest. Woolen shirt torn to shreds, hands shaking in a hot and healthy gore, feet and legs tense and ready to run. Blood and ruin and bone sat in a pool of indiscriminate fluid where his food once was. Two eyes rolled to the surface, ovular pupils reaching into his mind. His teeth shattered and fell piece by piece into the death there on the plate.


    ¡°Eat your kill, Arturo,¡± the voice said. The presence. The awareness. It had been there with him.


    His head fell forward, and he recognized the plate of enchiladas again. Some of the sauce spilled onto the ground. The vieja was staring, half-cooked tortilla dangling from her grip. His hands shot towards his mouth. Beyond the gory nature of these visions he¡¯d been¡­ receiving, teeth coming out in a dream was not a good omen.


    ¡°Cafe? en e?l fuego,¡± he asked, laughing with a nervous shudder. She nodded her head slowly in response. Arturo coughed, stomach twisting in knots. ¡°Bien. Gracias, don?a.¡±


    Looming shadows fell over the wagons. The horses huffed and scuffed the ground with their hooves, hauling the pilgrims up the switchbacks into the mountains. Electric conversations in excitement over the end of their journey lulled. At the top of the hard inclines now, green and lush mountains rose on either side of the pilgrimage convoy, inviting them to doze with the natural beauty. A temperate breeze caressed Arturo¡¯s face, and he took a sighing breath with all the other people and creatures as the mountains took them in. The mountains that went on as far as anyone could walk or ride, forever.


    The road had gotten busy during the day. Travelers on foot, horse, and riding in their own wagons worked their way into the mountain pass with the people from Arturo¡¯s home. Colors and smells, their imports bent the old wagon axles bouncing on the old roads, old men and women worn with years under the sun ready to make another year¡¯s living selling to the inhabitants of La Terra¡¯s great city. Arturo hopped out of the wagon while an unbothered Barto dozed off into his tenth nap of the day, and he caught up with Miguel who was huffing louder than the horses, leaned against the stone of the mountain pass, a tree with a perspicacious hold into the little notches and nicks in the rock giving him shade. Between gasps, Miguel nodded in the direction of the wagons¡¯ movement, ¡°Mira.¡± Arturo turned and walked to the crest of the switchback trail the convoy had been following for the better part of a day.


    And, finally, he laid his eyes on the Capital.


    A sprawling scape of white and black and red and yellow and blue and life. Fingers of a great city clawed their way up greenery and up foliage into the mountains themselves. The great bowl of El Valle de Las Tormentas was laden with the beating heart of all things under the Parents. Makeshift shacks and soaring towers, four stories tall in some places, mingled together in a haphazard haze, in chaos and perfection. Either fog or smoke or both hung pregnant with sound and silence over the city, pinpricks of restaurants and their fires, mariachis and their rings of torches, altars to the Parents and to the dead, streets lined with lights and people, dogs barking from rooftops and alleys with the slop of the day¡¯s meal tossed out by aloof women in the streets, the jittering of the cityscape with all the things teeming there.


    But¡­ for the pyramids. They dominated this city.


    Mountains of gods stretching for the very stars in the sky, terraces wider than the streets of home, stones heavier than anything ever lifted or heaved by men. The Monastery towered over the near side of the city, streaming with movement in and out and on the terraced slopes, supplies running up cables and stubborn weeds making their homes in the cracks in the construction. He stretched his neck and looked at the peak where healthy green things lived. The pyramid¡¯s face stood black in shadow and cast its darkness over the city, an early night for an early nightlife. But the Ministry stood in the light, identical but resplendent. Gleaming yet matte in stone. It was the home of the Parents and all those who governed and supported the people of La Terra.


    Arturo rested his eyes on the Capital, and his relief from pain was complete.


    Miguel breathed heavily next to him, ¡°I can practically smell the carnitas from here.¡± Trance broken; Arturo laughed.


    ¡°And I can taste the cecina already,¡± Arturo smiled and smacked Miguel on the back, not something he was accustomed to being able to do. They looked at each other and smiled wider.


    ¡°I do love the sight,¡± Antonio whispered from behind them. Miguel yelped and swung an involuntary and ineffective punch at the skinnier, quieter man. Antonio calmly stepped out of the way.


    ¡°?Me asustaste pendejo!¡±


    Antonio grinned, ¡°Perdon.¡±


    ¡°Vamos!¡± Arturo called out, already high-stepping it down the path. His hat blew off his head before the cord yanked around his neck in the passing air and half strangled him. Arturo didn¡¯t care. His legs burned, and his breath was hot. Arturo didn¡¯t care. His feet pounded the earth, and they felt good. His hands held out by his shoulders for balance, and they felt strong. The energy of this place coursed in him. The Monastery¡¯s shadow kissed their faces with a cooling touch as they ran on. The city was so large it was deceiving how far they still had to go.


    But Arturo kept running, more so stumbling, down the path to get to the city gate. He wanted to be there in it, to smell it and see it and taste it. Surreal was a word so weak and light the wind blew it from his mind. The Capital was a fever dream, and he couldn¡¯t wait to be sick. He was even excited for the mass.


    The remnants of an ancient wall stretched in either direction away from the road at the city¡¯s entrance. The Monastery cast the gates in darkness. Vendedores peddled their dried meats and pottery with mounds of their products piled on their backs and in their arms, little wooden carts somehow withstanding the great strain of all the things they sold. Some of the new arrivals waved their hands and shook their heads while they bargained. A cacophony of sounds echoed off the mountain and pyramid, the sounds of the city. Guitar and singing, arguments, and laughter all poured between the gates. Miguel trotted up next to Arturo, face covered in mayonnaise and crumbled queso, an enormous piece of corn dripping oil and salsa onto his fists.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Arturo¡¯s mouth hung open, ¡°You already found elote?? I haven¡¯t seen anyone selling it out here yet.¡±


    ¡°You missed it staring out at the streets with that dumb look you still have on your face. I ran and got some at the first cart I saw,¡± Miguel barely had breath to speak between bites.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen him move that fast,¡± Antonio added from behind them.


    ¡°I¡¯ll show you where it was, Arturo. I¡¯ll get a second one with you.¡± And that¡¯s what Arturo loved about Miguel.


    ¡°Gracias. Ah, don¡¯t you guys love it here,¡± Arturo asked as they stepped foot into the city proper, weathered stone ascending them from the land of countrymen to among the city folk. His friends nodded in agreement.


    ¡°Sure do,¡± Barto grunted and pushed past them. Some middle-aged women in less clothes than should be proper this close to the Monastery sat around a bar off to the right. The old wall made up one side of the building, and the wrinkled root of a man sauntered towards it.


    ¡°Gross, right under the Parents¡¯ noses,¡± Miguel whined looking disgusted.


    ¡°They¡¯re in the Ministry, Miguel,¡± Antonio stared off at the distant pyramid.


    ¡°Whatever, amigo. By the Father¡¯s name and all the Greatstorms he¡¯s cleansed, look at that.¡±


    The women were laughing and giggling at whatever Barto had to say. ¡°He¡¯s got to be richer than we thought,¡± Arturo responded slack jawed.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you guys work together?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what makes it even harder to understand.¡± Arturo pulled out an empty coin pouch. They all looked at each other and laughed.


    They made their way past the Monastery and into El Mercado Rojo. Arturo closed his eyes and took in the smells. Their plan was to eat then work their way up the main street, El Derecho, drinking until they found a place to stay. Penitence and religion were for a time after the first chance to have fun¡­ by the Parents¡¯ guidance¡­ probably.


    In every direction he looked, Arturo balked at buildings smashed together and stacked on top of each other, lines in a history book built in one decade and the next, people hanging onto the balconies and calling out to their friends below or pouring some putrid bucket into the street. It didn¡¯t matter what it was or where it landed, and Arturo certainly didn¡¯t care. He saw more human experience in these quick glances than in a week back in his pueblo.


    Valeria¡¯s almond eyes flashed up at him from her back. He froze and gulped and kept walking, his awe stained by shame.


    The Capital was completely encircled by green-brown peaks a lifetime and yet a short hike away. Old women and sleeping men sat amongst their stalls along the streets, younger women picked through hanging dresses and stacked pots to find what they liked. The pervasive red imprinted itself into his brain, but Arturo only had eyes for one place.


    Ahead of them, a chef in a sweat-stained, collared white shirt chopped at mounds of scarlet red meats with a cleaver. His swelling belly and concentrated face spoke of one thing, good tacos. Huge, black, and blackening teeth flashed in his jubilant smile as he cradled his delicate dishes in his giant hands and passed them to the customers at the high counter. Ratty, wooden stools were lined around the comal for hungry eaters. The shop had no name, and it didn¡¯t need one. The three friends took seats and leaned on the counter. ¡°Que quieren,¡± the sweaty chef asked without pausing his cooking. Spiced meat and toasted tortillas wafted around them.


    ¡°Quatro tacos de cecina para mi,¡± Arturo responded.


    ¡°Me too,¡± Antonio murmured.


    ¡°I¡¯ll do as many of the cabeza for me,¡± chimed Miguel. Arturo and Antonio chided him for not going with the signature meat of El Mercado Rojo, and Miguel whined back, ¡°Back off, I can¡¯t do the spice.¡± Arturo and Antonio then laughed at him. ¡°Hey, I¡¯ll drink you two into the ground.¡±


    Beefy hands dropped beefier tacos in front of the three young men and placed small bowls of different salsas on the counter. ¡°A bit of everything, and...¡± Arturo took the bite he had been waiting for, perfection. Fat and heat coated his mouth, and a lime brought it all together. ¡°Mierda, que bueno,¡± Arturo laughed to himself. Indulgence. Valeria would love this place. Arturo stopped and felt a pang of guilt again. Well, she could have come.


    When they finished their third plate of tacos, Arturo tossed some coins to the chef who nodded at them. He never broke eye contact from his cooking food. Arturo respected the dedication. Miguel smacked him on the back and thanked Arturo for the food. ¡°First cervezas on me,¡± Antonio offered. They all wooted.


    The young men ate and drank their way through the Capital, and all Arturo¡¯s cares of the world vanished into the air with the smoke from the group¡¯s pipes and tobacco. He was even happy to see Barto catch up with them after his whoring. The grump was already drunk too, carrying a half-empty bottle of tequila loosely in one hand. The gulps Barto took from the bottle were truly inspirational. Miguel sat down with him and challenged the old man to a drinking competition. ¡°You¡¯ve already lost, nin?o,¡± Barto growled. Miguel did sway back and forth in his seat, clearly the drunker of the two.


    Arturo made his way outside of the most recent bar they patronized. They had moved from El Mercado Rojo, past several barrios, and into El Centro. The buildings here were all stacked boxes of cracking clay, signs painted onto the outer walls above the entrances. Wagon fixers, tanners, wool spinners, and fishmongers. Arturo¡¯s pueblo never got the seafood stuff given their distance from the coast, so he and his friends never really got the taste for it; so, the smell from those shops was nothing short of unwelcome. He joined up with his bickering group attempting to decide where to go next, and he tried to keep his balance. He made a mental note to forget the less glorious sides to his visit, like the smell of this cramped place, for obvious reasons.


    People stumbled by in the streets. Arturo smiled at his fortune and flexed his hands. Flashing lights and applause caught his attention from further up the main street. His friends and Barto stepped out of the bar to meet him, and Arturo realized he was standing in the middle of a group of people he didn¡¯t know. He turned toward his friends. ¡°What d¡¯you think is¡¯over ther,¡± he slurred at them.


    ¡°Lests¡­ jus¡¯go¡¯n¡¯see,¡± Miguel slurred back. Arturo made an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders and trudged in the crowd¡¯s direction.


    ¡°Mis amigos! Would you like to hear another,¡± a young man¡¯s voice called from the center of the crowd. Miguel used his size to his advantage and shoved through the crowd to get his friends a better vantage of whatever spectacle awaited them. Most in the crowd were as drunk or worse than their little group, so no one looked twice. They got within three rows of cheering people before stopping to watch. The young man yelling over the crowd stood on a wooden crate, dressed in a white jacket and slacks. A wide-brimmed black and white sombrero drooped, lopsided from his head, and a black lace lined his jacket lapels, studded with polished silver buttons. A companion, dressed identically, sat on another wooden box in front of a strange contraption made of metal. Little prongs of varying lengths struck out from the tops and sides, and the man¡¯s thin fingers were clasped together near small rods pointed towards his stomach.


    The crowd roared at the standing man¡¯s coaxing. ¡°Then you shall have another!¡± He threw up his hands, and his pedestal looked close to toppling. The crowd roared louder. The two companions at the center lowered their heads together, then the one seated at the metal box placed his fingers on the small rods sticking from the box¡¯s side. Lightning reached for the sky, and an electric orchestra of zippy, tinny notes sprung into the air like some mutant accordion. They smelled like rain.


    The performer¡¯s fingers danced along the metal rods, and lightning jumped from the top of the box like a spider web for catching drunks. An open trunk was placed on the ground, half full of coins and empty glass vials. The music picked up and the standing musician clapped. A blast of wind knocked off hats and blew back hair among the crowd. Hands shot into the air, and everyone cheered.


    It was a Storm mariachi.


    Arturo¡¯s jaw was dropped so far open it dragged in the dirt on the ground. Even Barto looked excited. The one with the blasts of wind jumped from the box, adding a beat to his percussion with his feet and blasting a cloud of dirt into the air. The bolts of lightning danced in the smoky clearing, blurred and eclectic. The show of light and sounds dazzled Arturo¡¯s senses. He tried recalling the names of siblings in a Storm. The Thunder man? Thunder bolt? Well, the guy with the thunder began snapping his fingers and beating his chest to a fast and invigorating rhythm. Every beat sent little blasts of air through the crowd, and lightning lit up the people¡¯s faces.


    The lightning brother¡¯s fingers danced on his metal box. His head was down, and he swayed in the rhythm. Neither sang words nor spoke, they simply felt their music. Thunder guy began dancing around in circles. His brother lifted his head into the sky, bolts arcing towards the night in rapid melody.


    Thunder took Arturo in his heart. It reached into his soul. He had never felt this connected to song. He felt it in his bones, in his muscles flexing, in blood rushing in his ears. The dancing musician seemed to slow to a standstill, Arturo¡¯s breath rasping in his throat, leaden in his chest. The back of his neck itched like his skin was trying to drag him into the sky. He turned and looked up at the Monastery, its peak lost in dark clouds and in the night. All of his being beckoned him to walk towards the great stone pyramid. Was this the spiritual feeling people were supposed to experience on pilgrimage? The music reached a crescendo in concert with the beating of his heart. The sombrero on his back pressed into him with each clap of thunder from the musicians. A bit of the electric light flashed and reflected off the Monastery, off¡­ a sword¡­ flashing with its own light in the night, far up the pyramid before the cloud cover in a window before a terrace. What a curious time to be practicing with a sword.


    Arturo could barely think. His mind was sluggish with drink, but his skin crawled to move. He slowed his breath. Tried to snap out of it. He turned back towards the entertainers. He opened his eyes. Both mariachis watched him. Their heads sprouted fur and fangs and their eyes wept blood. They finally sang, ¡°Your blood, your family, your brother.¡± They sang in horrible gurgling voices. Blood sputtered out of their mouths as they laughed at him. They finished their chorus with a scream, ¡°DEMON!¡±


    Arturo jerked, and the crowd erupted with applause. The Storm stood and bowed. Arturo¡¯s friends clapped him on the back and gestured at him to cheer as well. Shaken, he lifted a half-hearted cry in favor of the song. The mariachis, with human heads Arturo told himself over and over, bowed. Thunder guy called out, ¡°Gracias! Gracias! Somos Los Hermanos de la Lluvia! Come see us any night. We are easy to find!¡± The crowd laughed. Arturo felt lonely.


    The group of countrymen and sheep herders found a nice inn to stay at over the night. Many of the establishments dotted roads all near the Monastery making business out of the pilgrims. People would make their journey, drink to their heart¡¯s content, and crash at the nearest inn they could find. Funny how the best partying in the city was nearest the largest church.


    Arturo¡¯s head hit an unsupportive pillow and his skin scratched against a straw mattress. The innkeepers didn¡¯t even bother placing wool sheets over the itchy stuff. Arturo didn¡¯t care. His mind was addled with booze in a far-off place. A lone swordsman stood atop a mountain of stone and reached out his hand. A man in a green mask called him by name and wept tears of blood. And Arturo slept.


    Buenas noches, mi hijo.

 Chapter 10

    Chapter 10


    Aquiles gasped for air and shot out of bed with a depraved and cruel pounding in his ears and behind his eyes, tearing him apart from each joint, each breath a monument to his body''s will to live for he did not wish to take another. It was pain. Like he¡¯d never felt before. Unintelligible whispers filled his ears, and a screaming rush of wind battered the inside of his skull, pulling the moisture from his eyes and strangling a scream in his throat. He stood next to his bed, bent over at the hip, with his hands clutching at his chest and face and eyes. Vomit forced its way out of his constricted throat and through his nose, bile burning and boiling in his chest. His body revolted against his world, and he whimpered. The assault drove the air from his lungs, and he whimpered.


    Then, it just stopped.


    No pain or left-over feelings or anything was left. It was an instant relief. The taste of his stomach¡¯s contents still soured in his mouth, but the agony pulling them there was gone. He wasn¡¯t even out of breath. Aquiles had never felt anything like whatever had just happened. Slowly, he checked his ears and around his scalp, worried his hands would come away sticky with blood from some unseen attack. The last remnant of the onslaught was some sweat on his brow and vomit on his floor. Acrid, acid air. Aquiles had to stop himself from throwing up at the smell.


    ¡°Que paso?¡­¡± he muttered to himself, voice hoarse. The candle burned on the night table as always. Boots and robes were placed carefully for the morning, again, as always. Except¡­ No feeling was left over from when he woke. No pain racked his bones and strangled him. But, most unsettlingly, no words echoed in his skull. Not mindless screaming nor wordless pleading.


    Nor the engrained chime of the Mother greeting one of her children.


    Aquiles¡¯ breath caught in his throat, a wordless scream twisting his face, horrified and confused. His heart pounded in his chest, every beat resonated in his body, the toll of a bell like a warning. Aquiles flung about himself, hands slicing in the air, an attempt to show her he was awake. Where was she? He collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the vomit on the floor, and he reached out to the Ministry across the city. He gasped and pounded the dirt beneath him.


    This wasn¡¯t possible. Never in Guidance nor myth nor legend was this a remote possibility. The Mother always greeted her children in the morning and dismissed them to sleep at night. Most took it for granted, even Aquiles, the literal voice of a god in his head each morning, and he took it for granted, not knowing or caring what the world might be without it. Silent sobs shook his body, and he slapped the palms of his hands into his temples.


    ¡°Please, please, please, please, please!¡± Beating his hands to his head in that rhythm.


    Not even those identical twins, abominations of nature and heretics in nurture, damned by the Parents to spend their lives living with a doppelganger however short those lives may be, never receiving the unconditional love the Parents have for each of their unique children, could deserve a horror such as silence in their first waking moments. Aquiles would rather his own brains dashed on a rock like those babes.


    Was it possible this curse was a symptom of speaking with the Father in his new duties? A secret kept by that old puta Socorra to mess with him? Protect him? Aquiles wiped his eyes and roused himself.


    He hoped with everything in him the Mother would be there in the morning. He hoped the Father¡¯s apparent anger with him had not seeped into the Mother¡¯s mind. Aquiles assumed the two spoke often, but was one god speaking to another? Surely, they didn¡¯t chit chat like he and Emilia transcribing their Guidance for a mass.


    ¡°Que mierda. The mass,¡± he hissed to himself. Pilgrims came to the Capital to praise the Parents and follow in their guidance. And the monk leading them wasn¡¯t even receiving the basest of love all the people of La Terra experience in their spiritual connection with the Parents. How could he be expected to address that roomful as damned heretic mongrel unworthy of the Mother¡¯s greetings? Aquiles would have to tell Socorra. Could he?


    The arcs were becoming easier to manifest. What if this was some rare and cruel punishment enacted on those using the blessings not offered them? Aquiles checked and, indeed, felt the pop of an arc between his fingers. He hadn¡¯t done anything like that first day sparring with Emiliano. He wasn¡¯t sure if he was even entirely responsible for that. Aquiles grabbed at the warring parts of his mind and submitted them. Pulled them together. He looked at those parts of himself. He had a duty to the pilgrims and a reputation to uphold. He was better than this.


    And so, Aquiles cleaned and dressed himself, eyes swollen red with the morning¡¯s tears, and pulled open his door to Young Ones lowering their heads in deference, as always.


    ***


    Arturo¡¯s eyes creaked open, his head pounding, arms and legs stiff and stubborn and pained. It was no pain of hangover or of sickness contracted from the Capital. Nothing of his travels or irregular amounts of walking. It was familiar. By the Father himself, it was so familiar.


    He groaned and held back from screaming in frustration. He came to the Capital to escape this feeling. Skin and bone threatened to yank themselves from his very soul, and he knew that feeling; couldn¡¯t forget it. Years upon years upon his entire waking life versus a measly two weeks of travel, so he could not forget it. This pain was part of him. So, why in the Mother¡¯s good green land and all her children did he waste all this time getting to the Capital, waste the good grace he and Valeria had, waste his life running just to fail in getting away from it? The pain followed Arturo to the Capital, the one place he knew in his bones with a desire at that very moment to snap in his fingers and toes, that it could never follow.


    Arturo sat on the edge of his cot, right leg bobbing quickly, and that hurt. He pushed himself to his feet without his normal ginger care and winced and shook at the lances shooting up his arms. He took steps to put on his clothes and walk out to start a miserable day, feet pounding¡­ then it stopped. And it was like he was holding his breath. A gasp escaped his mouth, ecstatic, involuntary, at the flood of relief, a wave of coolness, soothing his muscles and mind. He laughed to himself.


    Then, he froze.


    Nothing from the Mother this morning. Heart pounding, he shot through the door of their room into the back alley. He stood in misty mountain air in nothing but his under clothes and spun looking for a sign of the Mother¡¯s greeting. Frantic eyes and scrambling feet covered in mud and fear, and he searched for her.


    ¡°Mother? MOTHER?¡± He cried into the air.


    Arturo finally laid eyes on the Ministry. She was silent. Was he being punished for killing that cat? All of the visions about the death and accusations of lies, then the Mother stays silent one morning? Arturo wished he paid more attention during mass in the past. Maybe there were some old stories of bad men doing bad things. Maybe demons never heard from the Mother. Maybe that¡¯s what made them demons.


    Arturo lowered his head and pressed his eyes closed. He winced against the pressure of his circumstances, against not knowing what to do about them. He took a deep breath. Same as the fire. As his parents¡­ No. He took deep breaths and thought of other things. Acted happy until he felt it. That had worked before.


    And yet, the Mother hadn¡¯t greeted him.


    ¡°Que pasa, guey?¡± A borracho slurred from the street, looking at Arturo as if he was out of place. Well, perhaps he was.


    ¡°Nada. Good luck finding a bar serving tequila this early.¡±


    The drunk flung a hand in his direction and shambled on.


    Arturo burst back through the door into his room with his friends from home. He looked to a rumbling mound of flesh and blankets. Miguel had slept well into the morning, his body working off the buckets of booze from the night before. Barto sat half-awake, leaning on his fist, slack jawed. Could Arturo tell them? Of course not. Anyways, it would all be fine. The pain when he awoke was the same as what he always felt during life in the countryside, so he could handle it. And the Mother would say something eventually, right?


    There were no nice old ladies to serve caf¨¦ and food by the fire while they were in the city, but the same bars that enabled pilgrims and locals alike the night before now served caf¨¦ and pan amarillo. They understood their customers. Arturo dressed quickly and threw his socks over his dirty feet. Barto didn¡¯t acknowledge him, Miguel never awoke, and Antonio was nowhere to be found. That spook would be fine.


    ¡°Esta bien, muy bien. It¡¯s all good. It¡¯s great,¡± he whispered to himself.


    ¡°Wha- what are you goin¡¯ on about?¡± Barto grunted then burped.


    ¡°Nothing!¡± Arturo¡¯s voice cracked, and he slammed the door behind him.


    The city awoke with the laborious breath of so many lives starting a new day and the stretching muscles of commerce. Arturo¡¯s heartbeat outpaced it all, tripping over his feet to get to some food. That would help.


    He threw a few coins down at the first counter with a steaming pot and blurted, ¡°Cafe!¡± The vendedor grunted in response and poured a cup. Arturo sipped at it, and a familiar warming sensation spread through his chest and into his stomach like a hug from a loved one. It nearly washed away all his worries, then the first bite of the pan finished the job. Hard to worry about things with a good breakfast. He sighed, mouth full of sopping bread and sugars and goodness.


    ¡°Gracias,¡± Arturo sighed to the vendedor. The man was shriveled and bent over at the waist, and he couldn¡¯t seem to hear much less than a shout. ¡°Ah,¡± he grunted, ¡°si?, si?.¡± The word got caught up in his gums and spit out. Barto wasn¡¯t ten years from this man¡¯s condition, and he would be right bastard when he got there. That thought brought a better feeling to Arturo than the caf¨¦ ever could.


    Arturo still couldn¡¯t shake the pulling feeling. The whole breakfast the skin on his back stretched towards the Monastery, and now as he walked towards the monolith, his cheeks felt like they bulged towards it. Was it getting stronger the closer he got? Arturo imagined stepping into the great hall and shooting across the room to smack into the statue of the Parents. He breathed out in amusement. Any odd thought to distract himself.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    ***


    Aquiles went over Emilia¡¯s transcription of the Parents¡¯ guidance, and it certainly made no mention of the circumstances of his morning. No greeting from the Mother. Que horror. He bit his nails and at the skin under his nails. His pinky welled up with blood. ¡°Damned Greatstorms and demons and every curse of the Father,¡± he spat at the pinprick of pain and his day and anyone that would listen.


    Stuffy air in the cleaning closet Aquiles was hiding in clawed its way into his lungs, dust and an unsettled detritus drying his lips. He didn¡¯t want to chance someone seeing the Arm have to practice reciting the Guidance. ¡°By the Parents, their love, and their guidance, we Children hold ourselves and each other to the highest of orders to love and nurture one another.¡± He breathed out wetly, and with it, ¡°Do no harm to one another, but love one another. Speak no hate to one another, but love one another.¡± Exasperation and frustration, he breathed in and droned, ¡°And, the Parents said, ¡®Our Children are sacred with divine pieces of our Love. Let none of you bring down another by body or by mind.¡¯¡± He breathed out and sarcastically raised a hand to the imaginary crowd behind the brooms, ¡°By the Parents¡¯ guidance¡­ yaaayyyy¡­¡±


    And now, the section on being productive. What a great time he was having.


    ***


    Arturo walked laps around El Mercado Rojo. His skin pulled on his face then slowly rotated around to his ear and onto the back of his head. He stopped and, glancing around for watching eyes, turned in place to see if the feeling would move around his body that way. From face to ear to neck and back to face, the pull was like many strings attached to a point far away. He continued his laps.


    The newest vendedor to drown Arturo¡¯s mind raised an eyebrow as he visited the stand for a third order of elote. The man entombed, ¡°Extra mayonnaise, right?¡±


    Aturo¡¯s stomach twisted. ¡°Actually, can you do normal this time? Stomach is getting a little rumbly.¡± He laughed nervously, then answering with the obvious to an unasked question, ¡°Couldn¡¯t tell you why.¡± He tried too hard not to sound anxious.


    The vendedor stared him down, then sighed and grabbed a piece of corn from the steaming water in his cart. ¡°Here, this one is on me. Don¡¯t have many repeat customers in a day,¡± the man said through heavy breaths, ¡°and certainly not within an hour.¡±


    ¡°Oh, gracias sen?or!¡± Arturo slipped a coin into the pay box when the man turned around anyway.


    Mayonnaise dripped from the piping hot corn. Arturo¡¯s lips were pulled towards the corn as he stared at the Monastery. He turned and his scalp yanked on him towards the pyramid. It didn¡¯t hurt, but it was rather annoying. He looked down the main road past wooden signs hung onto brick walls, dogs playing with laughing toddlers and their parents shooing the animals away to the children¡¯s dismay. Arturo tossed his mostly eaten cob to a particularly patient pup watching him eat. His lips tingled with the lick of chili.


    The pyramid of the Ministry did not pull at him.


    ***


    ¡°Si?, si?, si?, lo s¨¦.¡± Aquiles rolled his eyes as he walked away from Child Emilia. She had come to see if he had memorized the passages correctly. She was quite particular about getting the words exactly right. All these pestering annoyances, and Aquiles had ¨C


    Buenos d¨ªas, mi hijo.


    Aquiles squealed and tripped over his feet, the transcribed papers flung in a lilting dance in the air before him. Emilia turned and cried out, altogether more concerned than she should be, but not a fraction of the terror Aquiles felt. It seemed the Mother hadn¡¯t completely neglected Aquiles this day. His heart raced, and he waited for that fiery pain to envelop his fingers and head again, though he wasn¡¯t sure why he expected it.


    ¡°Que paso?, Arm of Us,¡± Emilia¡¯s whining voice scratched in his ears.


    ¡°Nothing, nothing. I was just reviewing the passages and missed a step.¡± Thankfully, she made no mention of his little outburst.


    Aquiles¡¯ mind outpaced his thumping chest. What could this mean? The Father had acted strangely when they spoke. Or had he? The man, or thing, or god, well, he was a damned god after all. Bit of an oxymoron, but still, he was. Couldn¡¯t he just get five seconds of normalcy and ten of some damned peace this day? The sundial had cast it to be only the fourteenth hour - as he was leaving after only half an hour of obsessive scribbling - and he¡¯d already gone through more stress than Young Ones during one of Horacio¡¯s punishments.


    Scraping feet sounded further down the pyramid¡¯s stairs. ¡°Arm of Us, it does not befit your station to play in the dirt, pendejo!¡± Aquiles almost cackled out loud at the timing.


    ***


    ¡°Barto, you can¡¯t whore and drink all night then skip out on mass. You won¡¯t cancel any of the-¡± Miguel stopped talking as Arturo creaked open the door to their room at the inn. He discovered the establishment was named Los Juevos del Perro by the light of day.


    ¡°Are you all ready for mass, viejo?¡± Arturo looked expectantly at Barto, who sat in the exact position Arturo had left him in.


    ¡°Too hungover. The monk¡¯s messaging would make me hurl.¡±


    Arturo didn¡¯t blame him for that. ¡°Well, what about you then? Let¡¯s go, vamos,¡± he chided Miguel.


    ¡°Can¡¯t,¡± the chubby man leaned back and put his foot up to the light, ¡°broke my foot.¡± And indeed, it was swollen and black and blue.


    ¡°You broke your- how did you break your foot?¡±


    ¡°No lo se?, must¡¯ve broken it last night.¡±


    ¡°And you didn¡¯t feel it?¡±


    Miguel slid his foot back down to the ground and leaned forward like an old man ready to dispense wisdom, ¡°Mira, I drank an entire bottle of tequila. We don¡¯t get that good stuff out in the country.¡±


    Arturo stood there with his mouth hung open. ¡°Y Antonio? He wasn¡¯t even here when I left earlier.¡±


    Miguel gestured, ¡°Stumbled back in an hour ago. Won¡¯t wake up now.¡± Barto grunted in affirmation. Indignation? And again indeed, the twig of a man lay sprawled against the opposite wall under the many clothes and fabrics packed for their pilgrimage. And Arturo¡¯s hat. He snatched it from his snoring friend¡¯s head.


    Arturo stepped back towards the door, hat firmly on his own head, and flung his arms in the air. The skin on them was pulled back towards the Monastery. ¡°Thanks guys, guess I¡¯ll be the only good child of the Parents in here.¡± Barto grunted again. Indeed, indignation.


    He plopped onto the sofa to put on less sweaty and stinking clothes for the mass. It wouldn¡¯t befit the Monastery to walk in covered in grime. Arturo was quite fond of dressing nicely; it was just that he never comforta-


    Buenos d¨ªas, mi hijo.


    Arturo¡¯s breath seized in his chest, and he jerked his head around at the others in the room. ¡°Hey amigo, you sure you don¡¯t want to stay back too?¡± Miguel watched him with slight concern furrowing his brow.


    ¡°What?!¡± Arturo replied entirely too loudly. Antonio stirred in his cot, and Arturo began to breathe again. ¡°Perdon, I¡¯m fine.¡± He looked down at his hands, clenched them, wrung them in his calluses. They had felt that too familiar ache this morning when the Mother had forgotten to greet him, nothing when she remembered. He was thankful for that, yet terrified at what could be happening to him. The pulling on his face looking through the curtain towards the Monastery was a little stronger now. A ray of light breached the room and illuminated dancing dust disturbed by Arturo¡¯s panting.


    ***


    Aquiles listened to the ebb and flow of the crowd, whispers and murmurs and lives from across La Terra. He surprised himself with that pinch of appreciation for the diversity. But never mind that; mass had to begin on time. Hourglasses sat in a row, three tipped and still with the last nearly spent. The sand piled lightly onto a mound below it, a still candle reflected off the tiny grains. Four hours starting the first hour of the afternoon. Five hours from the Mother¡¯s late wake up call.


    Sweat wet his brow after running back to his rooms to scour his literature on the Mother¡¯s record of greetings and goodbyes. What he found put a vile taste in his mouth.


    Perfect consistency.


    The Mother never failed to greet her children as they woke and always tucked them and lulled them to sleep at night. Aquiles¡¯ experience was the only one of its kind in the whole of his readings, and he refused to let Socorra in on his problem. She would dismiss it, or worse, himself, in his entire. Maybe the whole thing was a prank, and she somehow convinced the Father to persuade the Mother. Did they have that kind of relationship? He hoped not.  The idea didn¡¯t seem as crazy as it should. Socorra¡¯s petulant cackle rang in his skull.


    Aquiles did, however, nail down the last details of his sermon for today¡¯s mass. The pilgrims had almost certainly heard it before, and they almost certainly didn¡¯t care. Everyone knew these trips were excuses for expensive nights on the town. Aquiles had better things to be doing with his time, better ways to serve the Monastery and La Terra. He was the new Arm of the Monastery, relegated to a task for the scholars. To put it nicely. He snorted to himself.


    ¡°Did you say something?¡± Emilia smiled at him.


    ¡°No, sorry.¡± Very needy.


    They waited in a room half a man lower than the altar in the great hall and hidden from the view of the mass. It was one of the few rooms fully built of wood in the entire pyramid, the monks of many years enjoying plentiful completed construction and storage space. Emilia had gone on about that fact and the rest of the great halls lofted structure in a nervous tirade for the past thirty minutes. What a perfect way to spend his time.


    Footsteps thumped above him. Emiliano and Jorge were chosen for the ceremony. It was supposed to be an honor for a Monastery-trained Storm, but with Socorra, it was more of a joke making them all take the stage together after their sparring session. She hadn¡¯t spoken of the ending, just looked at him with a knowing smirk at their meetings.


    A clap of thunder hushed the crowd. Aquiles heard a zip and a pop as Jorge lit the torches of the room with an outstretched hand, lightning catching kindling on fire. Some stragglers were sure to come in late, but the Parents¡¯ guidance hadn¡¯t offered any specific offense to tardiness. The fourth hourglass ran out. Nerves sparked by the Mother¡¯s change in schedule outweighed nerves of public speaking. It was time to get it over with.


    ***


    Arturo watched the spectacle, formally dressed Storms with white wool tied around their waist and white cloaks over their bare chest and shoulders walked out onto the altar. The Thunderhead clapped and the crowd stilled. Arturo stood with his practiced patience and politeness waiting for more people to sit, so he could find his own seat. Two statues with hands locked together faced away from the crowd. Even far from the seating, and at the back of the altar, the Parents¡¯ stood larger than life, carved from the stone of the very mountains that made up the gargantuan structures dominating their city. The Bolt of the Storm swept his hand across the crowd. Arcs of lightning jumped to metal torches, lighting straw, and setting them ablaze.


    ***


    Aquiles nodded at Emilia. She responded with an exaggerated smile and two thumbs up. He smiled back painfully and turned towards the stairs. The light coming down into the darker room reminded him of the ramp up to the training grounds. He took deliberate steps up foreign and unsteady wood.


    ***


    Arturo watched as the Storm returned to their place on either side of the statue. Each of the Parents¡¯ stone hands hung by their side, as if to touch the heads of their Blessed children, their blessing lending their children the power of a Storm.


    The pull on his skin shifted in slight increments across his face. Cheek, across his brow, and to the other cheek. It became stronger with each heartbeat.


    ***


    Aquiles¡¯ eyes broke the lip of the stairs and into the great hall, and he turned his head out to the crowd. Some were coming in late after all, typical country folk. But who could blame them. This was going to be a long hour. He noticed Jorge missed a torch in the back. Aquiles made a note to make sure the Bolt was disciplined for that.


    ***


    A monk¡¯s short, cropped hair peaked above the stage. It was as black a head of hair as Arturo had ever seen. It reminded him of his father¡¯s. The monk¡¯s shoulders were next. Adorned with a rough spun wool robe, it looked like something Valeria might make for winter. The monk continued up his hidden stairs.


    ***


    Aquiles winced as the stairs squeaked under his slow climb. No wonder this was the only construction of wood in the whole of the Monastery. It was not sturdy stuff.


    ***


    Arturo¡¯s heart raced. His hands felt lighter than the air around him. The pull on his skin, it followed the monk¡¯s movements. Tall and lean and corded with the muscle of a fighter, not quite gangly like Arturo himself. But for the monk¡¯s face. The face he saw as the monk turned towards the crowd and opened his mouth to speak. A face Arturo didn¡¯t see often, but a face he had seen enough in reflections of water and polished metal. A wide nose and square jaw. Round eyes with pronounced cheeks. His face. Arturo¡¯s face.


    ***


    Aquiles made it up the stairs to see the crowd finished seating themselves. He opened his mouth to speak and noticed a tall country boy standing stiffer than the statues at the altar. On his head, a ratty sombrero cast a shadow down the aisle between the benches. The man slipped off his hat, and Aquiles took in his features. His features. Aquiles¡¯ own. The man was his own mirror image. Identical.


    ***


    ¡°What the fuck?¡±


    ***


    ¡°What the fuck?¡±

 Chapter 11

    Chapter 11


    Buenos d¨ªas, mi hija.


    Josefa¡¯s eyes broke the thick crust of tears and mucus that had hardened over in the night. She should be dead.


    The bed squeaked as she rolled over onto her side from her aching back, blanket already thrown to the floor among the heaps of trash and soiled clothes, all of it strewn about piled dirt and grime. She should be dead.


    Her eyelids made a stubborn point to stick and crack with each blink, the sockets closing in on the eyes themselves like foreign objects left to rot. Her temples pounded with too much drink for too many nights. She should be dead.


    The Mother mocked her with another day in a living nightmare. She should be dead.


    Josefa¡¯s limbs ached in raucous agreement with her back. Her fingers felt like bending backwards. Bone and sinew stretched the bit of meat in her hands and creaked as the muscles and tendon flexed her fingers into fists. Her feet felt worse. ¡°Buenas di?as, puta,¡± Josefa spat into the air, daring the Mother to respond. The Mother didn¡¯t respond. She never responded.


    Josefa sat up, gasped and heaved, and swung the mess of her legs over the side of her bed. No injuries marked her skin, no bruise declared abuse, no misshapen body parts spoke to her pain. And they never had. Never would.


    A mound of the least dirty clothes she owned at the moment sat on a small wooden table across the room. They might as well have sat across La Terra hidden upon the heights of the gargantuan red wood trees in the grasp of a condor for as much as she wanted to get them. She gingerly placed her bare feet on the floor and sat shivering against the morning breeze from the open window against her bare skin. Quite a sad sight she would make, naked and trembling, fresh tears marring the old filth on her cheeks. Josefa couldn¡¯t bear the slap of water against her skin last night long enough to bathe.


    Shadows danced away from the candle with its perpetual flame licking beside her bed. The sun peaked above the tops of the mountains opposite the Monastery, the shadow of the black pyramid there a stain on the Capital, but the great circle of fire hadn¡¯t yet illuminated her room near the base. She broke her glare from the mountains and mound of clothes to glance around her room and determine she would clean the pigsty for the hundredth time this year. Josefa was never one for cleaning. Maria had always kept an orderly room, and she enjoyed taking care of Josefa¡¯s room too. A fresh pain pulsated at Josefa¡¯s fingertips and toes and traveled through her body into her stomach and rested in her chest. She gasped again to keep back a sob. She should be dead.


    Tears flowed unburdened and caught up the dirt on her face like a landslide in the rural places around the city. She looked up at the ceiling. The skin on her neck drew tight and uncomfortable, the bones threatening to crank her neck too far and break. A scar on her chest stood out bright red. It looked fresh.


    It wasn¡¯t.


    She ran a too-sensitive finger along the disfigured flesh near her collarbone, her sister¡¯s blood covering that finger and her hands and her chest. That memory of Maria never strayed too far from her waking eyes, always greeted her when they were shut to sleep. She should be very dead.


    Josefa stood, against her better judgment, and hobbled over to her clothes to get dressed. Every touch of fabric felt like brushing a searing hot fire, sensations she never got used to in the twenty odd years of her life like this. She cackled. Life. Que? broma. What a joke.


    ¡°We have mass today, Maria. Socorra asked me to come to her this morning to get some tasking for the day,¡± Josefa spoke to her sister, to the void, to no one, anyone that would listen. She focused on what Maria¡¯s response would be.


    ¡°Ha! Socorra probably wants us to stalk around the kitchens and worker quarters some more. At least it won¡¯t be a hard day!¡±


    Maria was always so cheery. Her smile slammed Josefa every time she looked Josefa¡¯s way, and it was stained red with blood when she met Josefa¡¯s eyes for the last time. Her sister was dead. But Josefa survived. Thunder without lightning.


    Impossible. Abomination.


    Josefa took a deep breath and tightened up her boots. Her ankles screamed at her, and her fingers twitched and shook at touching the tough laces. ¡°Yup, easy day, Maria. Easy day.¡± She was better at reassuring her made up version of the woman than she was herself. The Arm of the Monastery, the true Arm, not that welp apprentice, typically left Josefa alone to decide how to do her job. A normal day was relegated to ensuring the pyramid¡¯s staff were accounted for and keeping her body in shape in case any unwanted visitors came looking for her. They never did. A waft of body odor assaulted her nose when she opened her door.  She noticed a pile of clothes had shifted under the movement. ¡°Wow, I really need to clean.¡±


    Two kitchen staff stood in the hallway, struck with their learned fea- respect for her. Josefa had been told she had an honestly unwarranted reputation of being frightening, but she just liked a pyramid in order. ¡°What are you looking at? Go about your day,¡± she barked. The one on the right, a slight baby-faced girl, squeaked and hopped into a brisk walk.


    The one on the left, a portly yet similarly baby-faced boy, coughed and said, ¡°Yup, uh, wait for me!¡±


    Her eyes began to dry as she watched them skitter away. Her eyelids refused to blink on their own anymore, stretching open wider than normal. The looks she gave people as a result were not helping with her reputation problem. It was hard to be patient and understanding when every sentence was a moment stretched into eons by her phantom agonies. Josefa just about skinned a boy who worked in the laundry room for tearing a shirt of hers, a disgusting piece of clothing regardless. And one time she forced a girl to walk around the kitchen with a pot of hot oil held over her head until it cooled enough to bathe in. Perhaps the reputation wasn¡¯t entirely unwarranted. But Josefa could have been the daughter of a Greatstorm demon for the looks she got sometimes. She hoped people didn¡¯t really think she was so terrible. She admitted she could be more pleasant to people. Josefa sighed to herself, the blazing air of her lungs roasting her throat and searing her tongue. It was time to see what Socorra had in store for her today. Josefa placed a light hand on her door, pulled it closed, and braced herself to act tough and painless.


    Socorra was already waiting for her down the hall.


    Josefa strode out of the room and turned to the left, a slight nod to acknowledge the old woman watching her with an expectant eye. ¡°When you do that, do you just wait outside all night? Or are you watching under the door like a creep for me to wake up?¡±


    Her mentor sneered, ¡°Oh, something creepier I assure you.¡±


    Josefa chuckled in response, it hurt like everything did, but Socorra was a soothing salve with her humor.


    ¡°Something dreadful wafted into the hallway when you opened your portal into hell,¡± Socorra said and wrinkled her nose.


    ¡°That was just my attitude,¡± Josefa glanced over and smirked, ¡°been brewing all night.¡± The Arm had to look up at a slight incline to meet Josefa¡¯s eyes, the only person in the entire Monastery that didn¡¯t have to look down at her.


    ¡°Que bien! I¡¯m looking for a nasty attitude today I think.¡±


    ¡°When aren¡¯t you?¡±


    Socorra cackled and coughed.


    They continued walking down the hallway before it opened into the main square. A few of the Young Ones, shaky like chihuahuas with none of the confidence, skittered about doing their early morning chores. The pyramid was stretching and yawning in the dawn. Happy voices lilted beyond from the Children¡¯s mess hall, the group of monks always fastidious in their desires to have the freshest cafe? and pan. A line of Children more solemn and wallowing in their solitude flowed around the corner and into the square. They would cheer up the moment they got their breakfast. The duo strolled into the mess, and a wave of quiet waiting spread like sunlight over dewy fog in the early morning. This was respect for the Arm. Though, Josefa was sure a healthy amount of fear of the fiery vieja accompanied it, and the woman began leading.


    ¡°Horacio, can you take the Storms today in the training yard. Just have them work forms with each other. Rodrigo and his sister misstep constantly, so slap them around until they pay attention to what they¡¯re doing. Son pendejos, Horacio,¡± Socorra spoke to the air without ever identifying the swordmaster and snatched up a tortilla with an egg in it as she walked through the hall. A shuffling in the crowd caught the Arm¡¯s attention, and she turned to see Horacio¡¯s bushy eyebrows raised at the mention of training Storms. Josefa took her place in a dark corner.


    ¡°Pues¡­ ok¡­¡± the Child replied.


    ¡°Bien,¡± Socorra continued, ¡°the Father spoke to me of a thunderstorm rolling in across the mountains. Children of the Peak, see to the garden, by his guidance.¡±


    A fresh-faced girl, likely a newly raised Child squawked in response. Josefa was sure there were words in it but didn¡¯t expend the energy deciphering them.


    Socorra paused and shoved the whole tortilla into her mouth, a thoughtful expression narrowing her eyes. ¡°Ah!¡± she exclaimed, bits of food dancing out to land on an unfortunate Child¡¯s face, ¡°the mass!¡± The Arm made a great effort to swallow, and Josefa laughed to herself at the sight. ¡°We have pilgrims for the mass today! Everyone on their best behavior. Wear your cleanest robes.¡± The crowd groaned in defense of themselves. ¡°Ay, I¡¯m not saying names.¡± Socorra then pointed at a rather dirty looking monk, ¡°Pero¡­ I¡¯m pointing fingers. Go get changed. Que? disgracia.¡± The crowd sat in silence now waiting for more instructions. Socorra spun in a circle with her arms out. ¡°What? Do I need to tell you to wipe your culo too? You all are not Young Ones, do what you need to. Vamos!¡± The monks dispersed; the ones in line hung their heads and sauntered off.


    Socorra noticed Josefa waiting in her corner. ¡°Ven, ven, ven.¡± She came as told, back held straight as a statue¡¯s, her aches written into every step she took but wiped from her face. The Arm glanced around at the thinning crowd and leaned into whisper to Josefa, ¡°I need you to wait just outside the service tunnel during the pilgrim¡¯s mass today.¡±


    ¡°Que??¡±


    ¡°I need you to wait just outside the service tunnel during the pilgrim¡¯s mass today,¡± Socorra repeated, but like she was talking to a dog instead of her head of guard.


    Josefa¡¯s expression remained neutral, ¡°Wait for what, Child?¡±


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    ¡°There will be an odd-looking man stumbling or running or falling, or some other form of uncoordinated movement, from the entrance to the great hall after the crowd gets settled into their seats.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    Socorra began to reiterate the statement in her mocking tone again before Josefa cut her off, ¡°How do you know a man will be doing that?¡±


    ¡°Because I know he¡¯s coming, and I know what he¡¯s going to do.¡± A typically unhelpful response. Josefa bit back a chuckle.


    ¡°What should I do when he comes running out?¡±


    ¡°Just make sure he doesn¡¯t go back in. He¡¯s not one we need to be in our Monastery,¡± Socorra looked around the room as she spoke, ¡°Wander with me. We seem odd just standing here.¡± The Arm hobbled past. Josefa was content with the old lady¡¯s slow pace; she could keep up. Well, she could always keep up with others too, it was just a matter of how much suffering she would have to endure.


    Once they reached the mess entrance and were alone, Socorra leaned in again, ¡°Grab him and bring him inside.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Josefa, if I have to repeat myself one more time, I¡¯m going to become unpleasant to work with.¡±


    Josefa cocked her head and pursed her lips.


    ¡°Alright, I¡¯m going to become more unpleasant to work with. Just grab him and bring him inside.¡±


    ¡°To do what with him?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re going to offer him a position of sorts.¡±


    ¡°I thought he was going to be of the unsavory type.¡±


    ¡°You have no idea.¡±


    Josefa looked around exasperated, ¡°So you want me to just grab this man and bring him in knowing nothing about him or what he¡¯s capable of?¡±


    ¡°Correct.¡±


    ¡°Puta.¡±


    ¡°By the Parents¡¯ guidance,¡± Socorra patted Josefa on the cheek, it felt like the woman extended her arm and slapped her as hard as she could, but Josefa refused her body a flinch of pain. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll figure it out. Lock him in one of the rooms in the empty staff corridors in the bottom level.¡± Socorra added under her breath, ¡°He probably can¡¯t break out easily yet¡­¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    Socorra leveled a practiced glare at Josefa. The Arm was the only person capable of sending such a chill up her spine. ¡°Just leave him in one of the rooms and flag it with some cloth tied to the handle. Lock it tight.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know we were in the business of locking up strangers.¡±


    ¡°We aren¡¯t in any business at all. We are the Monastery. Regardless, the Father approves. By the Parents¡¯ guidance, amiga. We must uphold spiritual integrity in La Terra.¡± A devious gleam shown in the old woman¡¯s eye.


    Josefa snuck some of the good pan and caf¨¦ from the Childrens¡¯ mess and made her way down the long service tunnel. It was dark and damp and had rough, dirty walls, but those things were all of the sort that soothed Josefa¡¯s soul. She came down here to think often when others would go to the peak. It was the place of her birth, not biological, but those moments that would define the rest of her life after her sister was killed and left her as a mystery of the Parents¡¯ blessing to walk the world alone. Remembered feet scraped against the wet stone ground, her gurgles of pain and sporadic, lucid screams. ¡°Good you didn¡¯t have to see me through that part, Maria. I was in a rough place. Body fighting to kill itself yet refusing to die. Socorra hardly mentions what it¡¯s like living without her brother, her thunder. But us? Me? I don¡¯t think she¡¯s mentioned it once in the decades we¡¯ve spent here. But every time she looks at me, I know she¡¯s wondering. ¡®How?¡¯ She had promised to answer when she saved me. She never did. I don¡¯t blame her. I don¡¯t think she can,¡± Josefa¡¯s rant ended, and her voice rang off the walls absent the echo of Maria¡¯s voice in her head, ¡°Pues¡­ Oh, well. Easy day today, Maria.¡± She hung her head and rubbed her face, her eyes beginning to adjust to the deep darkness. She saw better than most down here.


    ¡°Yeah, except we¡¯re kidnapping some poor guy from the church.¡± Thank the Father she conjured an answer this time.


    Josefa shrugged her shoulders, ¡°He must deserve it, right?¡±


    ¡°You put a lot of trust in that old woman.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I do.¡± Glimpses of a dark room with lights reflecting from the floor and off polished black walls blinked through her mind. The tunnel¡¯s ceiling lowered, and Josefa lowered her head enough to avoid it. Caf¨¦ trickled down her throat and soothed her pounding chest. Walking itself like this wasn¡¯t tiring but restraining herself from screaming with each step was exhausting. Sweat beaded on her forehead and upper lip. Light shown down the tunnel from its exit. She was almost to the end. Josefa slowly poked her head from the exit¡¯s hidden place in the mountainside and looked around for any observant merchant or customer to notice her join the crowd in El Mercado Rojo. No one did. No one ever did.


    Beams of sunlight gnawed at the back of her skull, no amount of squinting ever enough to save her eyes when she exited the tunnel, and looked to the west seeking her favorite stall with her favorite elote?. A great, burly man stood in a stall made for someone half his size, and a man wearing a ratty sombrero stood and paid the large attendant with a couple copper coins. The man shuffled off, either full of corn or hungover from last night. Josefa nodded at Oscar. He nodded back, chins folding in a meeting that was anything but warm, ¡°Hola.¡±


    ¡°Que? tal?¡±


    He just grunted in response, and that answer was enough. He was fine. Oscar made good company for a woman without many words for most people. He handed her a cob covered in her favorite toppings, and she tossed him back a coin. The bar squeaked as he shifted, hand still waiting outstretched. Josefa rolled her eyes and tossed a second coin onto the stall counter, its red paint worn from years of elbows resting with hands full of the steaming delicacy. ¡°Gracias,¡± Oscar grunted. He swept his hand across the countertop. Her coin vanished.


    With her taste buds satisfied but her stomach not full, Josefa took her time wandering the city and eating snacks before mass would take place, before she needed to kidnap this poor stranger. She shook her head at the thought. Wasn¡¯t she a guard? Eyes kept weary at all times for foul play from foul people? Now she was the one instigating. And yet, Socorra must have the right of it.


    The sun peaked above the bowl valley of the Capital, and its dry, blistering heat burned away at the flesh on her neck. Her hair was pulled back tight, as always, and offered no protection. The discomfort was almost soothing, a distraction from the plague of pain she experienced every day. Despite the summer coming to an end, the long hours of sunlight drenched the stone of the mountains and their pyramids and their inhabitants in heat. But less of the twenty-seven hours of each day were taken up by that bright oppression this time of year, and that was nice.


    For all the discomfort, El Mercado Rojo was vibrant in the midday light. New scarlet reds from young shops sporting striped and patterned pottery juxtaposed the worn and tattered wood with a hew only hinting at the market¡¯s namesake. The place didn¡¯t offer any particular craft or food or service, it offered its personality, its look and feel. If people wanted something specific like meat, La Calle? Carniceros was a whole market in the center of the city offering meats of every variety La Terra had to offer at all hours of the day and night, except a brief pause at the Parents¡¯ hour for a quick reverence. That was the twins¡¯ favorite spot. Those boys could eat.


    Women with cones of straw called out their inventories of tortillas while their husbands pulled a cartful of the staple. Corn and char drifted through the air as one of those callers passed Josefa. Men sang with fast fingers dancing on guitar strings. Men lamented in long notes, their voices the only instrument they needed. This place was all Josefa had ever known, and yet, there was more in this city than any person ever could know. Barrios of colorful houses with rich merchants and shacks for the poor stood out as pockets among flat fronted shops and restaurants and public bath houses boasting their aromas and stenches, food and feces, mixtures that could only be found in the Capital. Life got quieter up the slopes of the valleys. Josefa looked up, right between the pyramids to the south, to Las Afueras Escalaras, to her childhood home.


    She knew the house was gone, everyone in her family long dead in truth, or just in spirit. Josefa¡¯s mother had feuded with her siblings over property left after Josefa''s grandparents¡¯ deaths. They died gracefully. Their family had not. Josefa¡¯s ti?as and ti?os and primas and primos were all but strangers now. Wandering and reminiscing and stimulating the senses dulled by a slow life in a church of all places, Josefa¡¯s mind drifted beyond her pain, her joints wanting to bend back a little too far, her skin ripping into itself, and she found a smile there despite everything wrong. She still had Maria, somewhere. She had Socorra, the Juans. People loved her. That was enough, or it should be enough, but she couldn¡¯t banish the pain or that flutter of worry at the top of her chest, the tightness at the back of her throat. After ten or so quadras away from the Monastery, she noticed the sun dipping towards the upper rim of the valley over the pyramid¡¯s peak. A frothing crowd had gathered down El Derecho where the great hall of the Monastery opened itself to summer¡¯s end. ¡°Mierda,¡± Josefa hissed under her breath.


    A little girl walking with a mangy old doll, mangier hair hanging in her eyes, pointed at Josefa and exclaimed, ¡°That¡¯s not a good word!¡±


    Josefa leaned in close, the girl¡¯s face taking on a familiar expression most people donned at the sight of her, and snapped, ¡°Bite me.¡± The little girl yelped and scampered off.


    Josefa guessed this mood was as good as any for an abduction.


    She jogged back towards the exit to the service tunnel, hidden in its scattering and smattering of boulders against the mountainside, and her feet protested every slap against the earth. Little bits of rock got into the tops of her boots and made her want to pull her hair out. A crowd was still mulling outside the great hall while a trickle began to move inside. Josefa reached the eloteria with a huff. Oscar nodded at her, indifferent to her rush or anything to do with the pilgrims. She faked a smile anyway, habits, and watched his attention turn back to cleaning his stall before shambling over to the tunnel exit. Servants came and went infrequently, and when they did, they went in the early morning when the passersby were as rare as a Storm in the countryside.


    Stone scraped at her clothes as she braced herself against the mountain, and her heart threatened to pound from her chest, her feet swelling out of her boots. Josefa cursed at her stubborn body and its reaction to the short run. She and Maria would walk around the Ministry with heavy packs for hours on end climbing ropes and ladders to fix anything that broke. She hated how physically demanding even walking felt now. It was getting worse, and she was getting older. But the good news was she beat the monks to their mass, if not the crowd.


    More and more people flowed through the doors and around the corner, an indistinct murmur of many voices reaching her and bouncing off the rocks around her, a whisper of ghosts and little heard men. She squinted to see if she could spot any standout churchgoers that might be her man. Socorra said he¡¯d come stumbling out, but it couldn¡¯t hurt to spot the target early. Josefa¡¯s eyes darted to each figure in the crowd. Pregnant woman and, presumably, her husband, a group of little old women that Socorra might have joined in another life, a few wool robed merchants, and the man from earlier in his weathered sombrero. His headwear seemed less foolish now among his kin. These country folk weren¡¯t up to times, nor did they care for any hour of fashion. Yet he was a sight, standing tall among the crowd, darker skinned and straight backed. He had a leanness like a dancer but didn¡¯t seem too weak. He was looking up at the pyramid, and he seemed¡­ solid, more than the rest, then he ducked his head and disappeared into the Monastery. He was definitely hungover before now that she could see him hail. All these ¡®pilgrims¡¯ really came to the Capital to have some fun. She didn¡¯t blame them.


    A clap of thunder sounded from inside. The mass was beginning. Josefa had decided she would get a good punch across the guy¡¯s temple. She tied some loose fabric she always carried in case of emergency, or crime apparently, around her knuckles to lessen the blow she knew her hand would take. Josefa gritted her teeth against the rough cloth. By the Mothers¡¯ godly bosom, the punch was going to hurt way more than the pathetic piece of fabric could protect, and she was already wincing.


    ¡°Puta,¡± she spat at her throbbing hand. That seemed to be the word of the day for her. Word of the damned decade.


    A bit of commotion sounded from the direction of the great hall. Was her man already coming out? She ducked behind the rock but kept her eyes peeking over the edge. Sure enough, a figure stumbled out from the great hall. A tall figure, a man obviously, with a lean build, and dark skin. On his head sat his all-too-familiar sombrero. ¡°Puta, puta, puta.¡± Josefa clenched her jaw and tightened her fist. He must be her man.


    He took a few steps backward, mumbling under his breath. It appeared Socorra had been correct in her prediction and accurate in using the word ¡®stumble¡¯. However, Josefa didn¡¯t see how he could be considered strange. Sure, he was a bit tall. Who wasn¡¯t compared to her? He was lean, yes, with a body like a dancer, a perfect description. Not some misshapen mishap of -


    Body like a dancer¡­ or a swordmaster.


    Josefa saw his face now, and she knew what Socorra had meant by strange. It was like Aquiles had put on the clothes of a country boy and forgot his grace. The man''s shuffling feet kicked dust in little puffs, eyes wider even than Josefa¡¯s. Maybe he had just learned about his striking similarity to the new Arm of the Monastery as well. But this was no similarity. The Juans were similar. This man could match Aquiles¡¯ description exactly.


    Identically.


    ¡°...demon,¡± Josefa whispered. So, she stood, and without checking her surroundings this time, struck like a snake at the side of the demon¡¯s head. He dropped like a sack of rice.


    ***


    Arturo stumbled from the mass. His head was jumbled and empty at the same time. Did he have a- was he- who was that- what was happening? He shook his head, it felt clogged and heavy like it used to back home, like the pain had returned. Had it? He blinked and let his feet carry him. Something crashed into him, and stars exploded in his vision, the ground rushing to meet his face. He felt another impact and tasted dirt.


    Buenas noches, mi hijo.

 Chapter 12

    Chapter 12


    A Brother watched the demon enter the Outreach. A Sister was felt far off, but they were getting closer. A Sister must have completed her tasks in the dust and the dirt. A Brother sneered at the disgusting pyramid in front of him. Identical to Home on the outside, old and poor on the inside.


    A Brother laughed a metal laugh. It rang in it. Some little man glanced at A Brother, and A Brother followed the little man with A Brother¡¯s eyes. A Brother drew looks. A Brother was something to behold. A sculpture, a making, a miracle.


    A Brother felt a surge of energy, and the ears picked up an ancient sound. A Thunderhead had pushed inside the great hall. A Brother sneered again at the silly traditions of the monks. The Parents were alive. Alive and in their minds and their hearts. Why tradition? Why religion? Why when the Parents were alive?


    A Brother didn¡¯t worship. A Brother served and remembered. Demons walked La Terra. Demon children of the Parents. Children that must be eradicated. A Brother caught the demon come back out of the hall. A Brother could feel it. A Brother wondered what blocked the feelings when the demon went inside the Outreach. A Brother stood tense and still in the street. The demons were weak and pathetic, but they were dangerous. A Brother blended into the crowds. The demon stumbled off towards the Outreach¡¯s outer walls. A Brother looked back into the open maw of the Outreach. Something blocked A Brother¡¯s vision from the inside. That something bothered A Brother. A Brother wiped the emotion from the mind. A Sister would notice.


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    A Brother took a step towards the demon. The demon was lying in the dirt. A woman stood over it. A Brother could feel the demon drift to unconsciousness. A Brother noticed another feeling. Pain in the right knuckle. A Brother saw the fabric wrapped around the woman¡¯s hand. The pain should not be there. An itch in the mind. The woman dragged the demon behind the rocks and disappeared. The woman had shown A Brother a way inside. A Brother would get inside.


    ***


    A Sister¡¯s vision bounced on the galloping horse. A Sister felt the right hand tighten and felt A Brother¡¯s confusion. Something had gone quite wrong in A Brother¡¯s chase of the demons. A Sister was not worried. Rumors of the demons would not follow their path to Home.


    The pueblo burned behind A Sister. The bodies were piled as twins there, burned there.  The warmth of the fire was the first comfort A Sister had felt in years.

 Chapter 13

    Chapter 13


    A familiar pulse jumped from Arturo¡¯s fingers up into his knuckles, into his elbow, into his shoulder, then its mirror working the same path from his other hand met the pulse in his chest. It sat there, he sat there, throbbing, a cry in rage and exhaustion, wondering why he left his home in her honey brown eyes and his pueblo at all. The pain sang, a symphony, more melodious and enthralling than any tune a mariachi playing for coin on the streets, Storm or not. He gasped at the sensation, and the gasp turned to a wheeze as the pain subsided. He flexed his hands and wiggled his toes in relief and was glad to be back to that feeling of normalcy. Another day, and the Mother hadn¡¯t greeted him in the morning. And yet, perhaps the reminder of his chronic situation was a good thing.


    Arturo¡¯s attention shifted to the room he lay in, and he realized he wasn¡¯t waking in the inn from their first night in the Capital. Memory surged back faster than the punch that put him to sleep in the first place. At least, he thought it was a punch. Wasn¡¯t it? Maybe a club? Who would want to club him? Now he was up, back straight, wired, eyes wide and darting from side to side. Was someone about to club him again? His head swam. A fresh and deep throb sprouted on the side of his head. Sweat rubbed in by his touch burned the sensitive skin on his temple. Whatever had hit him had left its mark.


    ¡°Where am I?¡± Arturo wondered at his bland surroundings. Walls of packed earth, and a floor made of the same, encroached on him from all sides. He lay in a cot, truly a much nicer cot than he was used to while tending the herds, and it had pillows and wool blankets to comfort him. A single small hole opened in the wall above his head. He turned and got to his knees and tried to look out. The opening led to a shaft slanting upwards at an aggressive angle. Fresh air brushed a strand of hair off his forehead, but he saw no light. The only source of illumination was a burning lantern in the corner of the room. Was he underground? He could smell cooking food and hear garbled sounds of the city coming down the shaft. Both were faint.


    ¡°Where am I?" Accusing the comfortable furnishings this time. Arturo moved to the side of the bed, waddling and hopping like the geese and rabbits he and Barto used to catch for dinner out in the grasslands. He slowly placed his right foot on the ground. Shaking his head, he quickly jumped from the bed. His obsessive caution was an annoying habit he had to nurture.


    The whole room was about the size of a stall in a donkey stable, enough to pace a few steps in each direction. He ran his fingers along the wall, and they came away dusty. The earth was packed tight enough to feel like a sandy rock. In fact, the room smelled like rocks holding hands with an unappetizing musk. Arturo hoped that wasn¡¯t him. A door sat flush with the wall opposite the bed he slept in. It was made of thick planks of wood and attached to the wall with thick iron hinges. They must have been drilled deep into the dirt to stop anyone from knocking the door out of its place. After all, the bars set into the hole in the door¡¯s face were the only indication he needed that this room was meant to be a prison. Despite the soft bed.


    Men committed crimes back home, albeit infrequently. A population with the voice of benevolent gods in its head wasn¡¯t prone to mischief or misdemeanors. However, a few rotten papayas would steal coins or hit their wives on a drunken occasion. One rotten man with a pension for wrongdoing was his own coworker. The cage back home was built just the same as this one, thick hinges drilled into hard packed stucco, and Arturo had become familiar with it, bailing Barto out for belligerent lunacy on too many a drunken occasion.


    Arturo sighed. What would Barto and the guys be thinking right now? That he had run off with some stranger in the Capital? Or worse, decided to become a monk? Not a fun proposition. He drug his feet back to the bed to lay down and ponder his situation. Had he been taken for what he¡¯d done in the grasslands to that poor puma? Or¡­


    Someone knew about the Mother.


    That she wasn¡¯t greeting him as she¡¯d always done, that she¡¯d forsaken him. Spirituality might not be a virtue for him, but Arturo still believed in the Parents, still feared them, by their guidance. It wasn¡¯t a good look. Sounds drifting down from the market were overtaken by a high-pitched squeal in his ears, his hands were wet and prickling with the beat of his heart, and the world blackened until a tunnel of light revealed only a spot of the bare wall to him. His head was light, and he shuddered, and his body sucked in air, but his lungs rejected it. Food would help. He was hungry. But Arturo had no food. He had shame and he was scared and he was a thoughtless wretch. The flames around him. Heat and screams. His hand kneaded at his chest. His legs bounced and he rocked back and forth and gasped at the suffocating air. Smoke filled the room, and he breathed it in. He closed his eyes and sat in the smoke. He breathed it in. His heightened senses dissipated, and a sulking remnant collapsed a sinkhole in his chest. The air was clean, and Arturo was ok. Barto''s was always calm on his own visits with captivity.


    There wasn¡¯t much to do without someone coming to get him, Arturo knew that. The old crab taught him that. He also knew the ¡®cousin-kissing, uglier-than-a-donkey¡¯s-behind, pinche cabrones we call men of the law around here¡¯ wouldn¡¯t respond to such name calling. Wholesome lessons from Barto. Perhaps all the happy parents around the pueblo would like to bring their nin?os to learn the extent of vulgarities possible relating to the Father and the behinds of the grasslands¡¯ wildlife. Whatever this was, Arturo would have it sorted, soon enough. It must be a misunderstanding. He¡¯d have plenty of time to get back to his own people before they left for home tomorrow.


    Residue of the earlier onslaught clenched at his heart. Arturo took deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. Something else the viejo had taught him growing up among the sheep. For all the bluster¡­ Arturo snorted. Crazy old man, Barto was. Which was a good distraction because he had been avoiding his thoughts of home this entire trip. That was the point of coming after all. Forget his pain. But he had made someone else¡¯s pain worse. What would Valeria think if he didn¡¯t return home tomorrow? Probably the same as the friends he came with, that he ran off with a new girl he met, having the time of his life without his chain to the country. Aches and pains ruled Arturo¡¯s life, didn¡¯t they? Lose the physical and gain the mental. He had never been one for the spiritual, so he spared himself that much. Yet this relief, this feeling of nothing, it was becoming to feel like a loss. And he felt he was just now losing another part of his life in Valeria. He would have to make this right. Arturo would never hurt her like this again.


    He wondered why people couldn¡¯t just relax and keep to themselves, improve their own lives, make themselves happy. He let a small sob release from his chest. Look how well he was doing at it. He imagined Valeria waiting by Olina¡¯s for the wagons to pull up with her beloved, only for him to be absent, lost in his own world of new pleasures. Arturo forgot everything he had learned about how to handle himself after picking Barto out of jail over the years and jammed his face to the hole in the door, ¡°LET ME OUT!¡±


    ***


    Barto¡¯s back hurt.


    He was old, he knew that. Still pissed him off. His head didn¡¯t hurt anymore from the fountains of booze. That was something.


    ¡°Where in the Mother¡¯s grand green chichis is Arturo?¡±


    The fat one shrugged his shoulders. He had such a stupid, fat face. The weird one just stared at him. He had such a stupid, creepy face.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you two his friends?¡±


    The fat one¡¯s fat face shook stupidly, ¡°Yeah, but aren¡¯t you too?¡±


    ¡°Callete?, I¡¯m trying to think.¡±


    ¡°No mame?s¡­¡± the creepy one whispered. Barto wasn¡¯t good with names.


    He continued like the creepy one hadn¡¯t said anything, ¡°I mean, he couldn¡¯t have gone off that far, right? Don¡¯t know why he couldn¡¯t have just skipped mass like us normal folk.¡± The fat one, Migordo, that was it, raised his eyebrows at that last part. Barto glanced down and flinched at the various bits of filth splattered on what would be, at best, described as his shirt. He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. ¡°Alright, I¡¯m not blind.


    ¡°I¡¯m gonna head to the Father¡¯s dumpster of a church to see if they know where he is. If not, I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll turn up before we leave.¡± The idiots just stared at him. The creepy one creeped him out. ¡°Are you coming or what?¡±


    The fat one gestured at his black and blue foot, ¡°My foot¡¯s broken, so¡­¡± He let the word dawdle and roll around in his stupid mouth.


    ¡°Yeah, not like you¡¯d wanna walk anywhere anyway, gordito.¡±


    ¡°The chicas love guys with a little bit extra these days, cabro?n,¡± Migordo replied.


    Barto ignored the rest of the ladies man¡¯s response and ducked out of their dank room. The sun was too hot outside. He never got used to that orange bastard in the sky. ¡°Hell, can¡¯t get away from it workin¡¯, can¡¯t get away from it playin¡¯.¡± His feet kicked up dust as he hobbled down the road.


    The Monastery wasn¡¯t far. That didn¡¯t matter. Barto didn¡¯t want to walk any distance at the moment. His head didn¡¯t hurt anymore, but his stomach still lurched; and the smells from the market¡¯s stalls were not helping. A group of whores lounged outside their fine establishment and beckoned toward him. They really were in it for the money. Barto¡¯s old culo couldn¡¯t get it up even for the Mother. Gross. Why would that be the thought he had? Whatever. He was too old to do any self-analysis. Sweat stung his eyes as he finally reached the church. He kept his head down after seeing the whores. Didn¡¯t want to get distracted.


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    The pyramid loomed above him, a mountain made by the gods for all the little people down here. He stepped into the opening, and a blessed wall of cool air met him inside. A couple of monks stood their gabbing about religion and being superior, probably. ¡°Hola,¡± he mumbled and coughed before regaining his voice. They didn¡¯t hear. Finding it again, he barked, ¡°Hola!¡± The monks turned. Looked to be family of one another.


    ¡°Hola, son of the Parents. Can we help you?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m lookin¡¯ for a tall fellow wearin¡¯ an old sombrero. Luce? como mier-,¡± almost let that slip in the house of the monks, ¡°just an old sombrero, and traveler¡¯s clothes.¡±


    ¡°That description could fit many of our visitors, hermano.¡±


    ¡°Right, well. He came for mass yesterday and never came back.¡±


    ¡°Did you not attend with him?¡±


    ¡°Mira, we¡¯re not here to talk about what or who I was doing, are we?¡±


    The kinder-faced monk of the pair smiled at him with pity, ¡°Right, well¡­ Perhaps I can ask the Arm of-¡±


    ¡°No! No, no!¡± Another voice resounded from under the floorboards. ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary! Emiliano, get to the training yard. You¡¯re going to be late, and you¡¯re already worse than every other Thunderhead out there!¡± The monk¡¯s head dropped at the comment.


    Barto smirked. ¡°Best you run along now with your fancy blessing.¡±


    The meaner-faced monk, now clearly the Thunderhead¡¯s twin, scrunched his face up in an attempt to look intimidating. He looked like a child.


    The other voice revealed itself. A short woman bobbed up from a hidden staircase near the altar. ¡°What? What do you want? Why¡¯re you harassing my Storms?¡± She turned her enmity towards the little, angry boy. ¡°Jorge, vete al carajo! Why¡¯re you harassing my Pilgrims?¡± The brothers scampered off.


    ¡°Look woman,¡± Barto spat, ¡°I¡¯m lookin¡¯ for a friend of mine that came here and never came back.¡±


    ¡°Came here for what?¡± She barked back, nastier bite than him Barto reckoned.


    ¡°What in the Father¡¯s good demons do you think? For mass!¡±


    ¡°What was he wearing?¡±


    Barto stopped himself from being impressed. This fragile, old lady breezed by his curses, but she was beginning to irritate him. So haughty, looking him up and down like he was a nin?o who couldn¡¯t figure the sky was blue. ¡°Old sombrero, traveler¡¯s clothes,¡± he snarled.


    ¡°Watch your tone with me, hermano. I¡¯ll string you up by your ears and beat the wrinkles out of you, you miserable old man.¡± A chancla appeared in her hand. Barto¡¯s eyes widened. He liked her energy, and it appeared something could get it up this trip after all.


    So, he calmed his tone and reached into his past for the shriveled carcass of festering stink that was left of his charisma, ¡°Me llamo? Barto.¡± He leaned against one of the pews and smiled. And thank the Parents for that because his knee was about to give.


    ¡°Socorra,¡± she narrowed her eyes at him, and a dangerous gleam took them over. ¡°Your boy stumbled out of here as mass started. Probably drunk. I haven¡¯t seen him since.¡± Barto knew when people lied, or he told himself he did. He was too distracted to care with this woman threatening him. And, boy, was she a woman. ¡°Not many people come in here cursing the Father¡¯s name and taunting Storms,¡± she slapped the chancla to his chest and looked up at him, ¡°I might have to tell on you.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± Barto nearly choked on his reply. His heart fluttered.


    She slapped him in the face now, ¡°Go look in some alley. Your friend has probably passed out in a pigsty.¡±


    He gulped, ¡°Ye- yes, ma¡¯am.¡±


    Socorra glanced down and her face twisted into a grimace. It looked like a smile on her, ¡°You are a dirty old man.¡±


    She stared into his eyes.


    And took a step closer.


    And lifted her chin¡­


    ¡°Vete al carajo.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am!¡± Barto turned tail and ran, wondering what in the Father¡¯s blessed, stinking pants just happened.


    Barto was worried about Arturo. That great wall of white fury had punched from the boy¡¯s fist and passed over and through the beast chasing them like it wasn¡¯t there, like it didn¡¯t exist, and left it like it had never existed. Barto didn¡¯t want to think about it, hadn¡¯t wanted to since it happened. Hadn¡¯t wanted his chest to freeze and his throat to close in fear every time he saw the boy, and now Arturo was missing. But, with power like that, he didn¡¯t need Barto¡¯s help much, couldn¡¯t need it. Besides, he¡¯d rather focus on feisty women like that monk in the church. ¡°Socorra, creo que estoy enamorado.¡± And he¡¯d never been in love before.


    ***


    Arturo¡¯s voice was scratchy now from his yelling. He had to get back to Valeria and apologize for being so selfish. His pains were nothing, his life was nothing without her, and he would show her what he meant when he said he loved her. He had acted like a child coming here when Valeria and her family were hurting. That was the only hurt that mattered, and now, Arturo knew if he was stopped from seeing Valeria again, he would tear this prison into pieces.


    Tears filled his eyes and dribbled down his trembling cheeks, and the hope that his grumpy old friend would peek his twisted face through the bars in the doors waned with every splat of his salty sorrows hitting the floor. ¡°Por favor!¡± he screamed again through the grate in the door. He put everything he had into it. Sound rushed from his chest and into the hall and made his ears hurt. The door rattled against its hinges before they damped out after his yell.


    New sounds bounced down the shaft to the outside world, sounds of rushing water and a man laughing up in the markets above. Odd, Arturo hadn¡¯t been able to pick out individuals from the jumble. He wiped his face and approached his bed and the opening above it with careful strides. Was it his captor come to taunt him? Stressed wood in the cot squeaked when he put his weight on the mattress, and the dirt in the hole rubbed off and rained onto his pillow, the patter of pebbles on linen lost in an increasing torrent in the shaft.


    The man¡¯s laugh grew unhinged above the echoes in the dark, then it cut off in an instant like the captor¡¯s air was stripped from him all at once. All the air was driven from Arturo then too, a wall of silence and pressure sucking at his lungs and the room, and a voice as large as the sky shattered the desolation of noise within the jail.


    ¡°I¡­ SEE¡­ YOU.¡±


    Flood and death flung Arturo into the opposite wall, a wave crashing through the room from the narrow shaft. If the voice had left him breath, he would have lost it now. The shaft gushed a torrent of blood and gore as if an army of stone had descended from the mountains and ground every living thing in the Capital into meat and fluid. It forced its way into his mouth and eyes and down his nose and it was bitter and metallic and wet and soft chunks jammed down his throat and it was too warm against his skin as he tried to stand and breathe. Currents of gore swept his feet from under him. The ground struck him in the back, and Arturo wanted to scream. The blood would drown him. The sky shouted in his head.


    ¡°YOU ARE SO CLOSE!¡±


    Someone knocked on the door. He jerked to his feet and looked around at his dry, undisturbed room. Bits of dust covered the pillow on the bed. The knock came again with a bit more force. ¡°Hola, hermano?¡±


    ¡°Uh,¡± Arturo shook his head and tried to clear his mind, ¡°si?? Yes, I¡¯m in here.¡± His voice was desperation.


    ¡°Yes, I know you¡¯re in there. We put you in there.¡±


    A bit of his gumption returned at the sassy response, ¡°Ok, so get me out of here.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s not quite possible at the moment. You see, the Ministry is interested in you as well, and you would be much worse off with them.¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about? The Ministry helps us, they wouldn¡¯t hurt me. Let me out.¡±


    ¡°Nin?o, please,¡± the voice was nervous, ¡°you don¡¯t know what they can do. You don¡¯t have to trust me, but at least cooperate for now. Then,¡± the voice paused and took a weary breath, ¡°then we can figure out where to put you.¡±


    ¡°You can put me on the wagons back home.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t do that. Look, let¡¯s start with your name. Como se? llama?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re telling me, you kidnapped me, locked me in here, and you don¡¯t even know who I am? Who are you people, what do you want?¡±


    ¡°We know who you are. And what you would look like.¡±


    A jolt ran down Arturo¡¯s spine, but he asked his question knowing the answer, ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°We both know the answer to that, nin?o. Please, what¡¯s your name?¡±


    Arturo sighed and shook his head. People really couldn¡¯t just keep to themselves and leave others alone, could they? Always chasing something or wanting something. ¡°Arturo.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Arturo,¡± she said with some recognition, ¡°Some desires die hard. Me llamo Socorra.¡±


    ¡°Socorra, let me out.¡± Her voice seemed to be frail and small, maybe she was just some poor old woman, in over her head. ¡°Socorra, I don¡¯t have any money, I don¡¯t know what you could possibly want from me.¡±


    ¡°We are looking for something much greater than money, Arturo. I think you¡¯re going to come to understand that.¡±


    He couldn¡¯t see her through the bars in the door, so Arturo darted from the bed and slammed into the barred portal, ceiling shaking ancient dust free. He stuck his face into the bars as far as he could. His neck craned forward, and the metal pushed back his nose. ¡°Open this door!¡± He yelled with a voice smooshed like his face.


    No one was there. The woman had gone off in silence. Arturo couldn¡¯t make out much more than the wall across from his locked door, but he could tell the door opened into some sort of hallway made of the same packed dirt as his room. Turning his head to the side, he contemplated his situation. The metal pressed into his skull, cold against the palms of his hands, and rough with age. The Mother losing her favor, visions of blood and gore with a screaming megalomaniac, strange occurrences of ringing ears and rushing air, a dead puma, and now trapped in some dungeon with no way out. Arturo stood up straight, pushed away from the door, and began to laugh. Tears poured from his eyes, and he laughed and pulled on his hair to feel anything but loathing.


    ¡°Arturo.¡±


    He stopped and held his breath. Feet shuffling on the dirt floor, he moved to the barred window and investigated the hallway. A tiny, old woman with a hunched back stood there, too short to see through the opening without getting close. ¡°Here.¡± She lifted a vial of clear liquid in her right hand and lifted her left hand with quartered lime and a small woolen bag. ¡°Mix the chile? and lime into it,¡± she nodded at the vial, ¡°it will give you energy.¡± Arturo¡¯s stomach rumbled. He took the vile and contents of her left hand. ¡°When you have calmed and come to accept your situation, I will return and let you out.¡±


    ¡°How could I accept a situation with details I do not know?¡±


    ¡°You know what situation I¡¯m speaking of, nin?o. And I know someone that¡¯s been trying to tell you.¡± The woman met his eyes. Hers were far more striking and sharp than anyone of her age had a right to be. ¡°What I can say now is that you are underground in the pyramid of the Monastery. I am its Arm to the Ministry, and I speak for the Father. And, I promise, you are safe,¡± she paused and smiled, it looked foreign against the wrinkles written clear by frowns. ¡°It¡¯s nice to finally meet you.¡±


    Buenos d¨ªas, mi hijo.


    Arturo flinched at the surprise. Socorra furrowed her brow at his jump before wiping her face clean of any expression. ¡°We know there is more than meets the eye.¡±


    She turned and walked out of sight. Arturo looked down at the loose suggestion of food in his hands. Exasperated, he shrugged and popped open the vial. He sniffed the contents and found they smelled of sugar cane among some indistinct herbs. ¡°Energy, huh.¡± For the hundredth time, he shook his head, giving up control, letting the days take him as they come. He dumped the contents into the vial, squeezed the lime, and took a gulp. It tasted sweet and salty and wonderful.


    Energy exploded in his chest.

 Chapter 14

    Chapter 14


    Buenos d¨ªas, mi hijo.


    Aquiles tripped over his feet and fell. Swatting the dirt from his skin sticky with sweat and stopping himself from gagging at all the other sweat imbued over the years and years of weapons masters and Storms exerting themselves, his mind flamed with anger and frustration. It was seven hours past midday and the Mother decided to say it now? It was a good thing he¡¯d been training late when no witnesses were around to spread the next rumor of the new Arm going mad, flopping and flipping and flitting about after a wild session slaughtering practice dummies. He wasn¡¯t some growing boy, limbs and feet too big on him, unsure of his own extremities. He was a swordsman, and a good one, and he couldn¡¯t be seen tripping over nothing.


    Though, it wasn¡¯t nothing.


    ¡°Buenas noches,¡± he corrected the Mother¡¯s assessment of the hour through gritted teeth, ¡°can you stop with this nonsense?¡± Like she could hear his complaints anyway. Effort spent for nought working the eerie sight of a man too similar to his own visage dragged at his eyes and arms and legs. He had been training as a distraction a lot lately, yet there were worse ways to cope, he supposed. The knuckles on his sword hand throbbed at the memory the walls in his room knew well, memories of coping gone wrong.


    So, on top of all the Bolt nonsense, there was Mother¡¯s nonsense, and now this nonsense man. Really, who did this spook think he was showing up to mass and messing with Aquiles¡¯ mind just to run off into the night? It was an inconsiderate and pathetic way to handle uncomfortable situations. Spasms of pain each morning were also an unwelcome experience to add to the list of nonsensical circumstances in Aquiles¡¯ life. Perhaps he needed to eat more, get more fuel and nutrition. The thought of food made his stomach turn over. Perhaps he would eat more later.


    Wool robes graced his shoulders with that familiar hug of fabric. The nights weren¡¯t retaining heat like they did in the middle of summer, so the air circulating in the Monastery was becoming cooler and soothing. He tried not to relish the luxuries. They would soften him. His arms and forms felt strong. His knife work was improving, and he was taking on more responsibilities as the Arm of the Monastery. Why did it feel like his life was falling apart? It was time to talk to Socorra, Child Socorra, the true Arm. He prepared himself to avoid impromptu swipes at various sensitive regions on his body incurred through expected practices of respect. Aquiles wouldn¡¯t tell her everything, but he could tell her enough to get some help, some guidance. He snorted and cinched his boots tight. He couldn¡¯t remember the last time Socorra was helpful.


    There was one more thing he¡¯d been practicing while he was alone. He flexed his hands and placed his pointer fingers a knuckle¡¯s length apart. Pop. A bright, petite arc jumped from one fingertip to the other. Deep tingles scratched at his bones to accompany the heat in his fingertips and the sound of the lightning. Socorra knew about this. This is what he should ask her about. Aquiles shoved the foreboding picture of a countryman in a ruined sombrero with a face just like his own to the back of his mind.


    Despite his stomach¡¯s protests, Aquiles made his way to the Children¡¯s mess. The main square was a mess of activity, Young Ones bustling around performing chores or academic endeavors, the older of that lower order joking in different cliques, laughing and pointing at each other before getting scolded back into motion, and Aquiles heart ached for a moment, for a childhood lost, and he did not know why.


    The mess was similarly busy. Children ate and laughed in their own cliques, never growing out of the mindset of those kids outside. Many lowered their voices and heads, tossing looks at Aquiles as he walked through the entrance and into the room, but he kept his back straight and his head forward, refusing to descend to the level of gossipers. Child Horacio sat with the herd of weapons masters, the only member of the group who seemed content with Aquiles¡¯ entrance. The grizzled man stared Aquiles down, concern plain on his face, the air between them still pregnant with his warnings of Aquiles pushing himself too hard, with too much brutality. Horacio might have been the person closest to Aquiles in the whole of the Monastery. Not even he could understand Aquiles¡¯ predicament.


    Tables of food grappled with Aquiles¡¯ stomach for his dominant desire, to vomit or to eat. He might end up doing both. First, he downed a glass of water, then he seeked out the blandest looking food available, a compromise of needs as much as his discipline on frivolous enjoyment. Returning to Horacio, Aquiles cleared his throat. The weapons masters all turned wrinkled, annoyed, or exasperated faces towards him. ¡°Child Horacio, do you know where Child Socorra might be?¡±


    ¡°Si?,¡± he pointed towards the mess hall¡¯s entrance. Socorra stood with her arms crossed and an expectant look on her face.


    ¡°Gracias, Horacio.¡±


    The rest of the masters grumbled at his drop of the Child¡¯s honorary.


    ¡°De nada,¡± Horacio responded through a cough.


    Aquiles interrupted Horacio standing, presumably, to accompany him to the Arm, ¡°Please, enjoy your dinner.¡± He sent a cold, sharp stare to each of the other masters in turn, ¡°Buen provecho.¡±


    Horacio paused and sat back down, ¡°Gracias.¡± The man seemed dazed.


    Brusk and blunt and busier than she should be for a woman of such age, Socorra turned and started walking back out of the Children¡¯s mess before Aquiles had a chance to catch up with her. ¡°Te ves mal,¡± came her greeting, soaking him in with obvious disgust.


    ¡°Gracias,¡± he replied.


    ¡°You like parading yourself around here for everyone to talk about?¡±


    Blood rushed in his ears as Aquiles clenched his jaw tight, ¡°I was just looking for you, Child.¡±


    ¡°Yet, I¡¯m the one who found you,¡± Socorra looked over her shoulder before carrying on.


    Tighter.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    They walked out of the mess and across the main square where any conversation would be drowned out by the rumbling of the Young Ones.


    ¡°Aquiles, while I sort out how to handle your literal outburst training with the Storms, I need you only speaking to two people and a god. That¡¯s me, Josefa, and¡­¡± she pointed east towards the Ministry, ¡°you know who. So, let¡¯s stop pouting like nin?os. Horacio told me about your mood.¡±


    ¡°Tell me what is happening to me.¡±


    She threw back her head and barked a laugh without smiling, ¡°Really? Really? Are you that dumb?¡± She reached up and knocked on his skull. ¡°Doesn¡¯t sound hollow. You know what¡¯s going on, you got your last piece of proof yesterday.¡±


    Aquiles stopped. ¡°What do you mean, Socorra.¡± Foreboding country boy came right back to the front of his mind.


    The Arm stopped in her brisk walk, more a hobbling or shuffling, and turned to grab his sleeve. She yanked Aquiles back in motion and towards the square stairs. ¡°Aquiles, I know you saw him. And I know you¡¯re both showing.¡±


    ¡°How would you know he¡¯s showing if he just got here?¡±


    ¡°That boy has quite the voice on him, deep like thunder,¡± she rolled her eyes at the obvious simile.


    ¡°Socorra, I-¡±


    ¡°Aquiles, please don¡¯t make this harder than it must be. I want to talk to you two together, but I need you both to accept the situation at hand to be the truth.¡±


    They arrived at an empty hallway a couple levels up from the main square. Astronomy classes took place here, and there wouldn¡¯t be anyone up there to overhear. Aquiles yanked his arm free once Socorra began walking from the stairs and down the desolate hall, ¡°Child, how did you know about him?¡± The question came out a bit too loud.


    ¡°Believe me nin?o, you have enough to work through as it is. What you need to know right now is that man is exactly what you fear him to be. You didn¡¯t just start manifesting powers because the Father blessed you for being my apprentice. You aren¡¯t going crazy. That man is your brother, Aquiles.¡±


    Despite expecting shock and bewilderment and fear, Aquiles simply felt tired, this building up of emotions and tension in his mind and body at last released, it exhausted him. Aquiles had a stubborn need for affirmation, ¡°We¡¯re identical. Aren¡¯t we.¡±


    ¡°You saw him in the great hall.¡±


    ¡°Then we must not be allowed to live.¡±


    If he was producing lightning, that would make him the Bolt. If he died, so did his demon brother. There is no thunder without lightning.


    He would not allow a Greatstorm, an abomination, to exist in this world. The Father was right about Aquiles having a brother, but he was wrong about Aquiles lying. He may not be a zealot for religious study, but he loved the Parents and the country they built. He would not stand by and allow demons, himself, to roam free.


    Aquiles turned to walk towards the training grounds to find something sharp, and if not there, the kitchens. Socorra grabbed at his sleeve again, but Aquiles twisted his arm and parried her next attempt. Her strength and speed surprised him, and he imagined if she knew his state of mind, then she would have used all those virtues available to her. Her feet spread into a solid stance, and she pulled on his sleeves to hip check and bring him to the ground. An aggressive fighter. Aquiles might have enjoyed sparring with her like this rather than in word in another life. He didn¡¯t resist the pull, as the intuition of most would do, but rather flew into her, using his superior weight and know-how to knock her from her feet. Socorra¡¯s back foot shifted, and her free right hand came up to take him in the chest. He twisted and spun around her arm, feet swinging about in a crescent and landed on her other side, crossing the old lady¡¯s arms up.


    Socorra jumped back to block the exit of the hallway, and the slightest hint of¡­ fear¡­ showed in her eyes. It froze him. It was the most off-putting thing Aquiles had ever seen. Including his demon twin.


    ¡°Josefa, he took it poorly.¡± The stocky woman seemed to detach from the very shadow and dirt of the Monastery, a walking nightmare of ancient people and a dark promise for this to come, coming from nothing. She stood then with the Arm. No wonder Socorra had made her captain of the guard.


    Aquiles¡¯ resignation was turning quickly to anger. ¡°I will not be part of whatever you have in mind, Socorra. This,¡± he gestured around and at himself, ¡°I¡¯m not right. I resign as the Arm and forfeit my life.¡±


    ¡°I do not accept your resignation.¡±


    ¡°It was not a request.¡±


    Aquiles surged to get around Josefa, but she stood her ground, two daggers appearing faster than he could track, and the big, lumbering twins turned into the hallway from the stairs. No wonder they were guards as well. These people could hide in an open, sunlit field in short grass. Josefa pulled the old Arm to stand between and behind the Storm. She wrapped her knuckles in cloth while her eyes burned with a rage Aquiles had never known. Socorra pleaded at him from among her fear and her great misfit host.


    ¡°We need you, Aquiles. The Parents need your help. The Father has told me so.¡±


    His teeth felt ready to burst at the tightness in his jaw now, ¡°That is impossible.¡±


    His anger turned to fury at all of this, at these heretics, simply accepting the nature of his situation and the existence of an identical twin. It was disgusting, and it was against everything the Father had ever shown them. Years and years of executions of the little babes flashed through his mind. He wandered how the Parents missed him, let him live out this life, just to end without meaning or virtue. Josefa¡¯s hair stood up from her tight bun, and the twins¡¯ arms became prickly with their thick coats on end. ¡°Really? You would use your blessings to strike at me? I welcome that. Strike me down!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not them, nin?o. It¡¯s you.¡±


    Aquiles looked down and saw arcs jumping between his fingers and hands, bolts of lightning connecting to the earth around him before disappearing in a flash of purple light. The energy was thick and heavy and hot, and it coursed in and out of him, jumping to the walls and the ceiling and the ground. A few arcs jumped to Socorra, and she gritted her teeth and redirected it into the ground, and the hair on her arms singed and burned. The smell of a fresh rain kissed Aquiles¡¯ nose. Juan moved to stand in front of Other Juan, protecting his Bolt from what he deemed to be a threat of death, the sign of good training learned well. That sight broke Aquiles, heart frozen with the fear that should have taken him before.


    ¡°...no. This can¡¯t be right.¡±


    The lights stopped, and the smell washed away, and he sank to his knees, one after the other, tears beating his fall to the ground.


    ¡°Take him.¡± Josefa surged forward and hooked Aquiles across the temple. He let it happen. His vision went dark, and he fell into infinity.


    Buenas noches, mi hijo.


    ***


    Buenos dias, mi hijo.


    ¡°Mierda!¡± Aquiles shot awake and looked around. He was in his room, candle burning in the corner, but still fully dressed under his blankets. The bed rattled as he shoved his way to the window to see the moon almost directly above his head. The Parents¡¯ hour. He¡¯d slept, or been unconscious rather, until the first hour of the next day.


    His ears rang and his temple pulsed. The pain in his head was nothing compared to the assault he¡¯d been experiencing the last few mornings. ¡°That woman hits like a grown man.¡± Aquiles rubbed his head and winced. He¡¯d sport a nasty welt on the side of his head, growing over the coming day, knowing what was coming with his training experience. He turned his attention to the door. They wouldn¡¯t lock him in his own room, would they? He pulled on the latch, and the door didn¡¯t budge. He shook it and the door just shook in its hinges, a clamor resounding in his room. They locked him in his room.


    He looked back towards the open window. The fall to the streets below had to be enough to kill him and the demon spawn Socorra had called his brother. They went through all the trouble of locking him in here and stopping him from hurting himself, but they hadn¡¯t even locked the window. Aquiles pressed his back to the door. He pushed off the wood, sprinted across his room, and jumped out the window to his death.

 Chapter 15

    Chapter 15


    Josefa sat in the windowsill looking out over the Capital. The moon hung just overhead and cast a gloom across the streets, shadowless figures haunting the alleys and swooping in and out between buildings like bats diving in for the crunch of insects. She had sharpened her knife during her shift to avoid falling asleep. Her leg hung out the window, and her boot scraped the leaning stones of the Monastery exterior, little touched in these days by men and women. Half a lifetime of discomfort taught her to sleep in just about any situation; a useful trait, unless she wanted to stay awake. Josefa had to make sure the new Arm of the Monastery remained alive to see another day. She snarled in disgust.


    The Ministry was not the benevolent force for the people¡¯s well-being and good fortune that those very people believed it to be. Her fingers ached against the hilt of the knife. She should be dead. And her sister, she should be alive. The Ministry made a choice, those many years ago, to rid Josefa of any predilection it cared about its people, her sister''s smile dashed scarlet red and shouting soldiers dragging at her hair, and she still did not know why. And Socorra, that lying snake, had always promised to help her get back at the tyrants, to discover their hidden abuses. The Child believed them to be heretics of the highest order, acting against the Parents¡¯ guidance, hurting the Father and the Mother. What could Socorra say about heretics now? Harboring identical twins, a Greatstorm, an abomination. Those two would raze this pyramid, the Ministry, the entire city and its people to the ground then salt the earth on which they used to stand. La Terra would burn.


    If the legends about Greatstorms were to be believed, that is.


    Yet, Aquiles did not seem to be such a threat. A hot-headed idiot, yes, but a demon with the power to shake the very earth, no. Socorra would have so much explaining to do.


    ¡°We need a weapon to use against them. They have an army of Storms. We have artfully trained monks. This land cannot face battle. These people do not know violence. We have a decisive advantage now,¡± Socorra¡¯s words echoed in her mind, the fire of her sin still hot in her knuckle, and an unconscious man laying in a cot beyond the grated door.


    ¡°Advantage? Convincing the people the Ministry was not what they thought it to be was already an impossible task. And now, you make it worse with this? How, Socorra? How did you create a Greatstorm?¡± Josefa had pleaded with her.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t, nin?a. I just found the people who could.¡±


    ¡°You said you failed in your plans, so many years ago, when you saved me.¡±


    ¡°But look at them. Now that they know about each other, there is no stopping what¡¯s to come. We must use them if we are to survive the coming days. The Father has shown me, and he has told me the truth,¡± Socorra had turned away from her and refused to meet Josefa¡¯s eyes, ¡°When I told you I failed, I lied.¡± So, here Josefa waited for a man that wanted to kill himself to take the bait.


    And a scream broke the night.


    The net erected outside of the room directly below Aquiles¡¯ own snapped taut with tonight¡¯s catch. ¡°Pinche, pinche, mierda!¡± He looked over at Josefa. She hadn¡¯t flinched a muscle and continued testing the edge of her blade on arm hair.


    ¡°Hola, Arm of Us¡±, she said his honorary title in a mocking tone. He scrambled to the edge to continue on his fall. ¡°Nope,¡± she slashed the catch knots nearest to her and the net tangled close. Aquiles was left to hang, tangled like the rope in the net, bumping against the pyramid¡¯s slant.


    ¡°Pinche, pinche, mierda!¡± He bellowed, and Josefa raised her eyebrow at him. He spat at her, ¡°Cut me loose!¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Straightforward, calm, decisive.


    ¡°Let me die!¡±


    ¡°You must not.¡± Reluctant, unsure, anxious. He screamed and strained against his strong restraints. ¡°Callete?. You¡¯re going to wake the Young Ones.¡±


    ¡°Good! Maybe the bastarditos can stir up a mob and trample me!¡±


    Maybe this man could be a demon after all. ¡°Juan!¡± Bolt Juan came lumbering into her room.


    ***


    Bristled rope bit into Aquiles¡¯ flesh and shocked him back into reality. He had stopped falling, almost in an instant, his attempt on his life arrested before he even felt his stomach begin to float in his abdomen. And he didn¡¯t comprehend it. His chest heaved, but he didn¡¯t really feel it, his eyes and ears just barely able to focus on Josefa, his mind able to force him to yell at her and the night. He had given up control in those final moments, content to have done good works for the Parents, to end a disaster before it could occur, and here he was tangled in his failure. He felt ashamed, it rotted in his chest, but he felt relieved to have that shame. He¡¯d jumped, and he couldn¡¯t believe it.


    Other Juan shuffled his oafish feet across the room and wrapped his bearpaw of a hand around several cords of the net. With a one-armed heave, he dragged Aquiles over the windowsill and into the room and thundered like a stern boy chiding a dog, ¡°No rayo.¡±


    ¡°If only I could make enough to do anything with,¡± Aquiles threw back at the giant.


    ¡°Si. Puede?s. Lo vi?.¡±


    ¡°That was different.¡±


    Aquiles was able to think when he lit up the astronomy hall, a star come to its disciples, when he could dive into his anger. Right now, his mouth and movements worked on their own like he was viewing the world in a suit made of himself, not calibrated to his intentions but rather its own necessities, however unknowable they might be. Never mind feeling his emotions.


    ¡°Socorra said, if you promise to relax, she¡¯d talk to you about what¡¯s going on and try to ease your mind,¡± Josefa seemed to strain against an internal conflict. She hated this as much as he did.


    He heard his voice, ¡°She¡¯s Socorra to you?¡± Other Juan scooped Aquiles into his arms and carried him out of the room, a newborn being cared for by its mother. He wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to sit silent in his room for a century, wanted to plead the sleeping Children about him to save him from this torment, wanted to sail through the open air, but he wanted to know what Socorra knew. He was carried across the hall, and Juan was there waiting. He opened the door to the bleary-eyed Arm.


    She shifted, sank into her persona, ¡°Pendejo. Why¡¯re you up in the middle of the night?¡±


    ¡°I assure you I could not begin to describe my intentions at the moment. Why not just tie me up here and wait for me to wake?¡±


    ¡°You might have woken in a fury. Hurt someone.¡± She paused, ¡°And I wandered at the extent of your convictions.¡±


    Other Juan undid the net and plopped Aquiles in a chair across the Child and looked down at him with a concerned expression, ¡°Esta?s bien?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m fine.¡± He wasn¡¯t.


    Other Juan¡¯s massive head bobbed down and up in a nod, ¡°Bien.¡± He smiled.


    Exhaustion itself inhabited the sagging skin that called itself Socorra. ¡°I thought I might have an easier time with you. I guess we really have taught all of you well¡­ to have such a visceral reaction.¡±


    ¡°Socorra, not two weeks ago the very threat I¡¯ve been shown to be was dashed against a rock before they had time to even comprehend what their existence could mean.¡±


    She sighed, ¡°Yes, the executions.¡±


    ¡°YES! Yes, Socorra! The executions. The Parents¡¯ guidance. The stories of the abominations the Parents exterminate to protect all of us. But somehow, they missed one. And you¡­ you seem happy about it.¡±


    ¡°I am. The Father told me about you. More than twenty years ago. Told me how to get you here. And he¡¯s been telling me how you and your brother can help us all.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe you.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t expect you to believe me. Believe him.¡± A metallic brace on her wrist flashed as she lurched forward and planted an iron clench on his head. Aquiles screamed.


    ¡°Hijo.¡±


    His scream went mute, not for lack of air passing over vocal cords, but for the lack of a medium in which to experience them. There wasn¡¯t blackness, there was nothing. Nothing but a voice.


    ¡°Hijo.¡±


    Something in him spoke back.


    ¡°Father?¡±


    Not a laugh, but the briefest of sense of amusement.


    ¡°Si. I know about you. But¡­ you lied- no you didn¡¯t lie. You couldn¡¯t have known, but YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD- no, no that can¡¯t be right.¡±


    ¡°Father, I didn¡¯t know what I was. Please, strike me down. End this. Protect the people like you and the Mother said you would.¡±


    A pining screech, it was laughter.


    ¡°No, no, no, hijo. You are exactly what I want. Those two, they want to use us, our power. Build something more- take it back. It? They want this. They-¡±


    ¡°Father, please.¡± Aquiles wanted desperately to whimper into this abyss, but there was nothing for it.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°NO! They know about you. Know because I know. But I can hide much. I fake it, hijo. Make them think you¡¯re stronger, yes, yes. They think you¡¯re strong, and they¡¯re afraid. And I am still strong. I sacrifice this bit of myself to stop them from taking more. I have more power than they know, yes.¡±


    ¡°How,¡± he wanted to heave for air, just for the act of falling into his distress rather than a need for breath in this nothing, ¡°how can I possibly be what you want? I¡¯m a Greatstorm, a demon.¡±


    The green mask filled all of Aquiles¡¯ awareness, his soul not his eyes, and peered down at him, into him.


    ¡°Demons do not exist, hijo.¡±


    And, sight returned, and flashes of horrors. Babies in tall, cylindrical jars, red like blood flowing in water, vats stretching along a polished black wall, mailed hands reaching for them, tears falling down a green mask and voices like the clang of swords and the whisper of a blade on a whetstone. ¡°Show them, Father. Show them their fears.¡± And he understood.


    Aquiles felt his presence stretch towards those babies, felt his mind open, and he watched the world through so many eyes neither knowable nor countable, and he spoke, ¡°Mis hijos. A Greatstorm is born.¡± And the words drowned out with a wind in his ears, and he smashed those innocent babes'' skulls to pieces.


    Screaming filled the air again.


    The room came back, and the aged wood of his chair creaked as Aquiles shifted. Vocal fry cracked in his throat and his chest pumped up and out, over and over, ¡°The executions, the Greatstorms, they¡¯re fake?¡±


    Socorra¡¯s grip on his head shifted into a caress of his face. ¡°Oh no, they¡¯re killing those babies. They¡¯re just¡­ grown for the purpose. The Father does not know how.¡±


    That was a terrifying prospect, and she continued, ¡°But Greatstorms are real. Very real. The Father knows this, and he says the Mother does too. They want you, the pinnacle of their blessings. But the Ministry is controlling them, has been for much longer than we could know.¡±


    Aquiles watched and listened, his breath a frozen spike in his heart.


    ¡°The Ministry is using the Parents for something, Aquiles,¡± she said, ¡°and when the Father revealed the truth of the Greatstorms to me, we couldn¡¯t stand by and wait to find out.¡±


    He caught the distinction there, ¡°We?¡±


    She glanced at Josefa, but the fiery woman just stared down Aquiles, her knives clasped in white knuckled fists, red in her eyes from the tears on her cheeks, and the Arm spoke over the rattle in Josefa¡¯s straps and gear, ¡°I made sacrifices in the past to prepare for this future.¡±


    Josefa flew from the room in a silent fury, and there wasn¡¯t sadness on Socorra¡¯s face at the guard¡¯s departure, it was a resignation to a truth she¡¯d held too long.


    ¡°Pues¡­ if the Parents are being controlled, then we need to help them. We are the Monastery. The people¡¯s spiritual guide. Why have you waited so long to do something.?¡±


    Socorra sat back, relief evident in the relaxing of her brow, in the slump of her shoulders. ¡°The Ministry conditioned an entire population into believing you were the single greatest threat to them.¡± She leaned back in and wrapped her hand around the back of his head, eyes of steel bearing into his brain and flooding his skull. ¡°And they were right to be scared. Not for the people, but for themselves. You, Aquiles, you have the power to restore the Parents, to challenge the lies of the ones that claim to govern us and provide. You and your brother. We were waiting for you.¡±


    Bile soured in his throat. His brother. A thought so foreign.


    ¡°You said you and the Father planned this,¡± he paused and tried to stop himself, he already knew the answer, ¡°you told me my parents dropped me at the great hall as a newborn.¡± his need to hear what she would say next stabbed into his throat and ripped out those words.


    Socorra¡¯s arm slackened, but her eyes were just as hard.


    Then, they flashed with her typical malicious cheer, ¡°I lied.¡±


    ***


    Blood rushed through Arturo¡¯s veins, and his bones thundered with familiar memory, exalted in the shattering sensation of his old pain for the briefest moment. The pain passed, and his heart dropped to his feet. The Mother hadn¡¯t kept to her tradition again, but she had given him a new one. A memory of home and Valeria now embraced the marrow in his bones each morning. He¡¯d been gone for less than a week, a lifetime. He wished he could get out of this room he¡¯d been trapped in, interrogated by voices in his head and bombarded by visions of horrible things. Arturo remembered how he used to feel waking up each morning. Tired and retired. He¡¯d get back home, and in days, he would be longing to leave again, to leave his hurt. He knew that about himself. He hated that about himself.


    What gave these people the right to keep him here, locked away like some animal in a cage? His face stared back at him through remembrance of the monk on the stage. It looked puzzled, surprised, and scared. He knew. He knew his face looked the same. It had to. They hadn¡¯t locked an animal in a cage, they had imprisoned a demon.


    Over the years, he¡¯d grown disgusted by the treatment of the Greatstorms, broadcasting an execution for all to watch, to become desensitized to. He didn¡¯t know much about the nightmares and the legends of the demons roaming the early land and destroying all before them, forsaking the blessing of the Parents. His own parents hadn¡¯t tried to scare him into behaving. He just did. Laughed with them, learned to nurse himself and how not to hurt.  His mother was always so sweet, and he always behaved. Not for fear of getting smacked, he just wanted to. Arturo never wanted to be a burden on anyone. He looked down at his hands. They didn¡¯t tremble like they did at home. Whatever happened now, he was scared to be the burden of an entire people. If the legends were to be believed.


    His face had stared back at him, and he knew. He accepted what he¡¯d done to the wildcat and the odd bursts from his body. The ringing in his ears like a loud blast had rushed over him. Because a loud blast had rushed over him. But Arturo didn¡¯t feel like a demon, like a powerful Greatstorm. He felt like a little boy, and he was scared of the dark.


    The blanket was becoming too warm. He flung it off himself, and tears splashed onto the sheets as fabric brushed his face. Arturo was far from powerful, he was weak. He¡¯d always been weak. Valeria made him stronger, and he¡¯d thrown her aside to run for the city. He ached for his pain to return, to be careful dressing, to have his arm wrapped around the girl he loved, a girl that knew how to touch him slowly and lightly.


    ¡°I have been told your name is Arturo.¡±


    Arturo jerked his head up from his hands and his rumpled sheets. A head was silhouetted in the barred opening on the door. Torches backlit the figure and cast human shadows into the room. A stretched, black head shape was interrupted by the cast of the bars, long and imposing on the ground. He nodded and whispered, ¡°Asi? es.¡±


    ¡°I have learned you are my brother.¡±


    He managed a shaky reply, ¡°I think that must be true.¡±


    Arturo crossed the room to stand at the door. The man backed away, and lights from the hallway lit his face. They both had to duck to see through the opening. Arturo didn¡¯t grow up with polished metals to see his reflection, but he¡¯d seen it plenty watching himself in the river to know it well. That face stared back at him now, a reflection of himself walking free in the world.


    ¡°My name is Aquiles. I¡¯m a Child of the Monastery, and I will be the Arm to the Ministry.¡±


    ¡°¡­hola,¡± Arturo tried to swallow the sand forming in his dry throat. What else could he say? His opposite¡¯s face remained neutral. Arturo pressed forward, ¡°You seem tired today, Aquiles.¡±


    ¡°I tried to kill myself this morning.¡±


    ¡°I might have if I were you too. Kinda hard for a monk to be an evil demon from bedtime stories,¡± Arturo said, breaking a palpable knot of hysteria tying itself between them with just the right kind of inappropriate humor. The man¡¯s lip almost curled in a snarl. Probably not enthused with his situation. Recovering, Arturo added, ¡°So, if you¡¯re a monk, does that mean I¡¯m in the Monastery now?¡±


    ¡°Si?.¡±


    Then, with exaggerated incredulity, ¡°You guys have dungeons in the Monastery?¡± He was trying too hard.


    ¡°The prison and guard here are news to me as well.¡± Flat. Indifferent. ¡°I¡¯m here speaking with you because I have seen some information recently that this might not be as bad as I thought,¡± he gestured between his dark figure and Arturo, ¡°but believe anyway, this is very bad.¡±


    ¡°Are you blaming me? I got knocked out, kidnapped, and dropped here with no say in any of it.¡± Who did this guy think he was coming in and telling Arturo what he was?


    ¡°I¡¯m not blaming you, exactly¡­ but I don¡¯t, or didn¡¯t, think we should exist. I¡¯m not sure what to think now.¡±


    Something clicked in Arturo¡¯s head, ¡°Wait, Storms are bonded, right? If you had killed yourself¡­¡± His brother looked down with an embarrassed look on his face. ¡°You tried to kill me off as well!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s what was best, I-¡±


    ¡°You weren¡¯t going to get my say in it?¡±


    ¡°What would it matter? You don¡¯t understand the gravity of the situation. You wouldn¡¯t have agreed.¡±


    Arturo punched the door, and it resounded with a satisfying thud and metal ring. ¡°You gonna start telling me other things I don¡¯t understand? I understand you people locked me in a cage, and now I understand you tried to kill me too.¡±


    Aquiles scrunched his face and let his head fall to the side, ¡°Kill us, technically.¡±


    ¡°First family I¡¯ve had in years.¡±


    ¡°Ay, padres mio.¡± His murderous brother looked like he was shoved out of the way, then Socorra¡¯s voice returned, requiring Arturo to crane his neck down to see her. ¡°Getting two men to have a heart-to-heart conversation is like trying to teach a dog to talk.¡± She handed Arturo another vial and bag of seasonings, ¡°Mira, I¡¯m going to let you out, but you¡¯re not going to try to run off.¡± She looked up to either side of her, ¡°Not that you¡¯d get anywhere.¡± An enormous dark hand reached over and waved at him through the door.


    He promised to remain calm, and the-future-Arm-of-the-Monastery was escorted, to put it nicely, by a pair of gargantuan twins that would fit the tales of Greatstorms better than Arturo and his twin ever could. They carried themselves with an assurance Arturo didn¡¯t think he¡¯d ever possess. He tried being happy for them knowing their places in this life. Socorra had opened the door and threw a brown woolen robe over his road clothes. She pulled a hood over his head. ¡°Keep that up and cover your face. The twins up there spook people enough as is.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t say.¡±


    They walked through hallways made of the same dusty packed earth in his room. Several tucks and turns later, they emerged into a large open square bustling with people where old monks talked in hushed voices, and groups of children ran around, some ordered by a man in a robe, some herded by women with calm faces. This place wasn¡¯t so bad. What had turned Aquiles so sour?


    He looked up to the peak of the pyramid and traced the impossible, wrapping stairs with his eyes, waiting for the stones to come undone and drop among the crowd and the whole thing to collapse. Olina¡¯s tavern and the whole block back home could fit in here. He stared with his mouth open at the surroundings. A hand smacked the back of his head, and Socorra hissed in his ear, ¡°Do please keep your head down, Arturo. Would you like to see a hundred angry monks trained with every weapon imaginable coming for your blood?¡± He lowered his eyes to his feet and kept them there.


    ¡°You listen well,¡± a stocky woman with a tight bun said. She pulled up beside their group. No one else seemed to pay attention to their passing but her. ¡°Better than the other one.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s Josefa. She¡¯s aware of the situation, and you can trust her,¡± Socorra huffed. His eyes met Josefa¡¯s, and a shiver ran down his spine. Arturo didn¡¯t quite believe he could. He smiled at her, coping with his anxiety. She did not return the expression, instead shifting that wide-eyed gaze to Socorra. The vieja shrugged it off.


    ¡°This way.¡± Socorra guided him with a tiny hand on his back. They turned into another hallway off the large room. It ended with wooden stairs leading up to a dark room.


    ¡°Are we leaving the Monastery?¡± Aquiles questioned Socorra from ahead. Fear drenched his voice.


    ¡°No.¡±


    They climbed the stairs, and Arturo realized they now stood on the stage he first saw Aquiles, the statue of the Parents on their right, gods¡¯ hands interlocked over the heads of their greatest heretics. The bent, old woman guided them behind the statue and stopped there.


    ¡°Aquiles, you wanted to know how I spoke with the Father from the Monastery. Here you go.¡± She smiles, an expression that looked much more like a grimace on her.


    ¡°What about that bracelet on your-¡±


    ¡°That too. Don¡¯t worry about that one. Neither of you may come here without me. Neither of you may speak about this place with anyone. Is that clear?¡± An annoyed Aquiles nodded his head. Arturo was too struck with awe and confusion at his predicament; he just squeaked a vague agreement. ¡°Josefa, Juan, Juan. It¡¯s best if you don¡¯t come in at all today.¡±


    They were both named Juan?


    ¡°Juan,¡± Socorra gestured at the one on the left, possibly the rougher looking of the two, ¡°stand guard out of sight in case jumpy here tries to run.¡± he jabbed a thumb at Aquiles, and he scowled back.


    ¡°Si?,¡± Juan replied.


    ¡°You other two, go about your business. You haven¡¯t seen Aquiles today.¡± They nodded their heads and left. These people worked well together. ¡°Arturo, brace yourself. The Father isn¡¯t what you¡¯ll expect.¡± She threw open a hidden door in the wood behind the statue and climbed down a ladder. From below the floorboards, Socorra continued faint and distracted, ¡°Not anymore.¡±

 Chapter 16

    Chapter 16


    The door thudded shut behind them, Other Juan¡¯s brutish grin the last sight Aquiles¡¯ caught of the world above, and below him, his brother threw back his hood and spun in a circle, the poor country boy enamored with the whirlwind of changes in his surroundings. Aquiles tried to keep his own interest in this secret room hidden from his twin. He saw his brother¡¯s awestruck expression, eyes and mouth wide and hung open with disbelief, and refused to look so out of place.


    Socorra waited for them both at the bottom of the latter facing the center of a massive circular chamber. The roof was low, but the diameter was a good portion of the entire pyramid¡¯s base, held wide and open at some four hundred paces across. Steady, white light inlaid at the base of the walls ricocheted about the room, bouncing from glossed black walls and floors and ceiling, the very same unnatural stone lining the hallways and atrium of the Monastery, a little chunk of that holy fortification ripped out and placed in this dingy pyramid of dust and dirt. The artificial lighting unsettled Aquiles, not so much as his doppelganger unsettled him, stumbling about like a pendejo, but enough.


    ¡°The great hall was constructed sometime after this chamber was excavated from the mountains,¡± Socorra called out, tiny steps taking her further from the ladder and into the strange room. Her voice echoed off the walls, and she didn¡¯t have to speak up for her words to fill the air.


    Aquiles¡¯ unsteady tone betrayed some of his anxiety, ¡°Was the pyramid itself constructed on top of it?¡±


    ¡°Or was this an addition? My mentor believed the latter. Now, Arturo, please walk to the center of the room,¡± Socorra beckoned the petrified looking man further into the room. The Arm passed Arturo on the way back to the escape from this gleaming dungeon, and patted his shoulder when they got close.


    He whispered, but the words carried, ¡°How will I know when-¡±


    Socorra patted him again, ¡°You¡¯ll know.¡±


    Arturo continued taking painstakingly slow steps towards an indeterminate point as Socorra arrived to stand shoulder to shoulder with Aquiles. ¡°He called it the sound box,¡± she hissed now, ¡°my mentor that is¡­ for obvious reasons.¡± The country boy turned and held that same dumb expression on his face, lips pulled down in a childish frown like his tio in a skeleton mask just spooked him on El Dia de Los Muertos, and Aquiles, the Arm of Us, swordmaster, and astronomical scholar knew he¡¯d never look at anyone as stupidly as that.


    The pendejo turned back and froze in mid step, the loaner robes not even swishing about him, and he squealed, the din careening through the sound box, amplified tenfold through some unknown mechanism.


    ¡°Ah, there. He made it to the center,¡± Socorra called over Arturo¡¯s cry.


    Then, the poor country boy dropped to the floor, spent and silent. Socorra stepped forward and dragged Aquiles with her as he blabbered, ¡°Que? Are the conversations always that fast? They feel so much longer.¡± And his questions got overtaken by babbling.


    ¡°The- the- the babies weren¡¯t real? The executions disgusted me¡­ like I knew. But- but the Parents are gods. How could they need ou- our help?¡± Arturo lay there mumbling, face wet with tears and mucus.


    Socorra bent and cradled his head in her hands, ¡°Maybe we built them into something they are not over the years, nin?o,¡± she brushed his longer hair aside, it looked dirty, then she turned her head up toward Aquiles, ¡°or, maybe the Ministry is much stronger than they let on.¡±


    ***


    With their promise not to run off, and her own promise to answer their questions, Socorra turned from the lanky boys climbing that ladder shaky like stick bugs, and attuned herself to a new mindset, able to handle the Father¡¯s mind in his rapid decline. He had not been like this before. Pues, el siempre ah sido loco. Always a bit off and unstable, but his degeneration worsened by the week now. And, at her age, that speed felt like the dipping of the sun below the horizon, at one point the valley full of light, then another a darkness falling across the city. She approached the connection.


    ¡°Ah, hija. Mucho gusto. Just the person I wanted to speak with.¡±


    His mask was in the downturned frown it had been mostly stuck on for the past few years, the clouds about his shoulders rolling in a melancholic lilt. Socorra cleared her throat, ¡°Of course.¡± She cleared her throat again in an attempt to remove whatever was catching up her words and failed, so she spoke through it anyway, ¡°It worked, Father. We have a Greatstorm, and we can challenge the Ministry.¡±


    ¡°Why would we challen-¡± The mask flicked on and off, the face of the young man flashing through, long black hair hanging in strands about his face. ¡°Yes, yes. I remember. Those boys. Arturo¡­ Aquiles¡­ strong, but not ready.¡±


    Her heart thumped in her chest, ¡°Yes, but Father, hold to this. You cannot let the Union know their weakness. They must fear the threat. The twins are untrained, and it is too early. Please, understand this.¡±


    ¡°What Union? I may share- yes, yes. Those pale devils. I will deceive them.¡±


    Socorra breathed out, relieved in this relative lucidity of the Father, ¡°Bien. Then, we can begin with the next phase. Remember, send the visions only to your Children of the Monastery. You must do it as soon as you can, so we can bolster their support.¡±


    ¡°Si?. I remember,¡± the mask went neutral, human eyes now showing through slits in the mask under the protruding brow, intelligent and powerful, spears of confidence and expectations, the eyes of a god. Socorra hadn¡¯t seen this face on him in many years. ¡°The Union advances in their developments. They¡¯ve created monsters, hija. The Mother weeps. Abominations of our blessing. You must be careful.¡±


    ¡°We will, and I will do my part,¡± she pronounced. ¡°It will not be much longer, Father. We will free you from them, free this land from whatever is to come.¡±


    His eyes vanished, and the storms wrapping his shoulders billowed and blew, ¡°What is to come has come before.¡±


    The Father turned and ducked through a ripple in the air, then he was gone.


    ***


    ¡°The cooks made enfriijoladas and fried eggs for lunch, would you like some?¡±


    Arturo¡¯s stomach rumbled with ready agreement, ¡°I would love some.¡± Tired and irritable, Socorra had fetched him from his rooms after finishing with whatever responsibilities bore down on her and pulled him from a trance of the Father¡¯s doing. At least, the god had promised to stop sending all of those horrible visions, and it was good to know what, who, had been doing it, yet disconcerting that the Father might be just as unhinged as Socorra said. ¡°Do you have any more of that sweet stuff?¡±


    ¡°Not for now, that¡¯s for getting your energy up,¡± Socorra paused and smirked, ¡°and you¡¯ll get plenty of it when you start training to use your blessings.¡±


    They both grew silent then, and Arturo¡¯s heart grew heavy. He felt for the Father¡¯s problems and wanted to help, but the Ministry had always treated the people of La Terra right. It was surprising to learn they had strayed from the Parents¡¯ guidance. Socorra seemed earnest in her desire to provide all the help she could, however the pleasant and understanding persona she had put on, in a failure of subtlety, was starting to crack. She¡¯d want them training to help as soon as possible. They walked through the empty hallways in the underground portion of the Monastery in the northeastern corner of the pyramid, and he was becoming familiar with the layout, directions being important to him after years of guiding by sunlight.


    Arturo believed them, Socorra and the Father, that the Greatstorm myths were just that, myths. Many people, merchants and travelers, passed through the pueblo to buy and drink their money away, shaking his hand in deals for the raw wool Barto would load into their wagons, full of outlandish and far-fetched tales. Mean tales. People could spin horrible stories about others just because they were different. He thought of the kids when he was younger who¡¯d slap his back and make fun of his trembling hands, spasms forcing him to the ground, arresting his legs and thoughts and lungs, torturing him without a care. Yes, they were just kids, and kids do not understand, but kids grow; and grown people can be cruel. Arturo didn¡¯t hold it against them. No one got it easy in this life. People just needed to find what would make them happy and hurt as few others as possible, like he would be hurting Valeria if he stayed here training.


    His thin voice broke his own introspection, ¡°I can¡¯t stay here and learn to help, if my help even is needed. I have people waiting for me. People that will wonder where I am.¡±


    Socorra took a clean inhale through her nose. ¡°And what will you tell them of what happened on your pilgrimage to the Capital?¡± She stopped and tilted her head to the side. ¡°Will you lie to them?¡± She took a step forward, ¡°How long will you lie to them?¡±


    Arturo¡¯s chest grew tight hearing his unspoken fear. If he went home, he¡¯d have to lie to Valeria and Barto and everybody about what happened here, he¡¯d have to lie for the rest of his life and live with the worry that he would hear rumors a man with Arturo¡¯s face had wandered into town, or worse, was running the Monastery itself. Was there going back without finishing what had begun here? ¡°I just want a normal life.¡±


    ¡°Everyone does, Arturo. That¡¯s what we¡¯re fighting for.¡±


    ¡°How do you know?¡±


    Irritation flashed in her eyes, ¡°How do I know what?¡±


    ¡°That the Ministry has poor intentions controlling the Parents. Why is it so bad to be governed by people alone? Do we really need the Parents?¡±


    Socorra took a step back. ¡°There are old evils in these lands. We need them more than you could possibly understand.¡±


    ¡°You monks presume much about what I am capable of understanding.¡± He leaned down, the air around him stirring, his hair drifting in little puffs of wind, little blasts of thunder, ¡°I will stay and learn my place in this. But I¡¯m not doing it for you. Not for my ¡®brother¡¯. And, certainly not for the Parents. I will not live a lie with the people I love.¡±


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    ¡°You do not love the Parents?¡±


    He chuckled, ¡°I loved my parents. They died in a fire. And the gods did nothing.¡± And he hoped to everything beautiful in the world that those gone people were his parents, his own flesh and blood.


    Socorra shuddered, ¡°I will have your lunch sent for you.¡±


    He grinded his teeth, hot rage contained at the edges of himself, ¡°Gracias. I like mine with a bit of serrano.¡±


    She nodded and walked away. Arturo returned to his room.


    ***


    Aquiles leaned out over empty space at the top of the world. He was convinced not to jump now by the Father, but the drop would be so freeing. He could be free from knowledge of a heretical Ministry, free from a family he did not know, and free from blame if he failed in what the Father asked. Yet, he turned and walked back through the garden, a low sun casting the green stalks like bars in a prison cell. Training called to him, called to erase the anxieties from his mind.


    On his walk, he distracted himself with academics. Even now, faint booms and pops could be heard ricocheting off the stone and into the halls of the Ministry, evidence of the presence of Storms. Aquiles guessed the chamber below the great hall was designed somehow to contain sound within its walls. It could explain the odd acoustics inside and how Socorra had hidden its location with such ease. Plus, the Juans never trained with the other Storms, and their skill was apparent, which meant they held discreet training sessions somewhere else. Those twins¡¯ feet danced with a practiced grace through his mind, one after the other, placed and flowing to where they needed to be. Aquiles couldn¡¯t imagine the connection required to develop such precision. He felt confident in his own abilities after years of drilling, but relying on someone else to perform in tandem was foreign to him. He had relied only on those opposing him. He imagined his country boy brother stumbling over his feet attempting to move with an ounce of grace.


    Disdainful thoughts and overwhelming worries clouded Aquiles¡¯ mind, so he almost missed the crowd of twins leaving the ready room. He¡¯d gotten to the training grounds without noticing the passage from the peak. He sat back from the opening far enough to avoid notice, faking some task with the leather armor and straps available in an alcove for Young Ones to get comfortable with training. After the group thinned, he lowered his head and slipped past the stragglers. Socorra stood at the ramp to the training grounds. Her shadow stretched towards him, taller than the woman spawning it by several times over. The ethereal black form made a beckoning motion, and the flesh and blood Socorra turned and walked up the ramp. Aquiles wondered which version of her was real. He followed.


    When he reached the top, a sword came at him in a quick strike. He side-stepped then jumped further back to put room between him and the tip of the weapon. He let his awareness fall into that flow of the blade, allowed himself to release as if Child Horacio was frowning down at him from beneath his forest of eyebrows, but she grinned at him, swishing the blade through the air. The thin metal whipped and whirred reflecting the waning sunlight in small flashes on the pyramid¡¯s wall. ¡°By the Mother¡¯s tits, I haven¡¯t swung a sword in years,¡± Socorra swore with a nonchalant smirk, ¡°do you think you can beat me?¡±


    ¡°That was crass, Child Socorra.¡±


    ¡°Ah, well, I have a direct line to the Parents, she wouldn¡¯t mind.¡±


    Aquiles rolled his eyes and sighed, ¡°You speak to the Father.¡±


    ¡°And the Mother said ¡®buenos dias¡¯ to me this morning.¡±


    She lunged with a  sudden jab, and as he side-stepped again, she swiped at his stomach, the tip of the sword nicking his robe. Aquiles pushed his finger through the hole in shock, ¡°Are you trying to kill me after everything we went through today?¡± She jabbed at him again. His ankles popped as he stepped in the same direction as before, but now he watched her hips for clues. He didn¡¯t have a sword of his own, so he needed to get inside her sword¡¯s reach. Her hips twisted for another swipe at his stomach, but he was prepared. Aquiles lunged into her motion, catching her sword hand on his hip.


    He forced his thumb into the tendons on her wrist, his grip enjoying the give of her thin, old skin, and he wrenched the joint around as he drove his shoulder into her chest. That pushed her back, loosened her grip on the sword, and gained Aquiles room. The woman fell back to the ground, the weapon vibrating now in Aquiles¡¯ grip. Maybe a physical confrontation with her was what he needed.


    ¡°I do think I can beat you,¡± he chased her into her fall with a hiss.


    She sat up laughing, ¡°I haven¡¯t been hit like that in years!¡± She cackled and clapped the dust from her hands, coughing at the puffs of regolith catching in her throat.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad I could give you the luxury.¡± Aquiles was not amused.


    ¡°Alright, a fight¡¯s a fight¡¯s a fight.¡± Socorra stood and strutted to the weapons rack on the round wall of the training ground enclosure, and she walked back over, erecting a basic fighting stance with her shoulders and legs, sword outstretched, and not one of those blunted training swords, the real thing. Her left hand rested on her side, the right held her sword pointing towards the ground, and her hips pointed off to the side. If she was a larger person, she¡¯d make for an intimidating opponent, confidence pouring off her like a pot boiling over. As it was, Aquiles had no doubt in his ability to win a duel against her. His reach combined with her status as an out-of-practice swordsman would be daunting for her to overcome.


    ¡°Bien, bien,¡± he replied, the corner of his mouth turning up, his cheeks burning from the lack of practice with the expression. Aquiles copied her stance. He preferred less structured forms, but he enjoyed tradition from time to time. Socorra¡¯s sword came up, and Aquiles rested his against it, metal sliding over metal in the quiet dusk of the day. His chest rose and fell, her¡¯s moving in the peaks and troughs of his diaphragm collapsing and growing, controlled breaths for a controlled mind. Her weight shifted to her front foot.


    He capitalized.


    He darted forward to throw off her weight while anticipating a retreating jab. She flicked her wrist instead to meet his blade, but it was too late for her. Aquiles drew his sword toward his body, pointing it towards the sky while lowering his hand, deflecting the light blow. He began to bring his arm back up and place the blade at Socorra¡¯s neck to end the duel.


    The hand resting on her hip came up and slapped him across the face. Aquiles¡¯ stumbled back, confused more than dazed from being hit. He looked at Socorra, accusing, and she responded, ¡°Horacio gave me tips.¡± He just clenched his jaw in response, so she shrugged her shoulders and giggled, ¡°I didn¡¯t say a fair fight.¡± She returned to her starting position. ¡°Again, Arm of Us.¡±


    Aquiles got back into position, ¡°Who were my parents?¡±


    Socorra attacked first in this bout, and they exchanged several quick blows.  She appeared to be testing his reactions, and Aquiles began to doubt she hadn¡¯t held a sword in years. He was not strained by the attacks, but his lack of sleep would catch up at this tempo. His stance had to be adjusted to accommodate a smaller opponent than usual.


    ¡°Sheep herders from the countryside. Arturo knew them well.¡±


    Aquiles scowled and battered away her strikes with a blazing ferocity. ¡°You kept me here while he was raised by them?¡±


    Venom dripped from his words and endowed his blade. Aquiles became tired of defending and went on the attack. He dropped his shoulders into swings and bobbed around, sliding feet forward in unpredictable steps. His backhand opened and closed, raised and lowered to offer him leverage for his strikes.


    ¡°Everyone has Parents that love them, Aquiles. You just have to be willing to accept that your relationship with them will differ from those around you.¡± She presented no tiring and fended off his attacks with ease. Maybe the Juans weren¡¯t training alone after all. What was it with these old monks and hidden stamina?


    Their engagement resumed. She slunk forward behind several quick jabs at his shoulders and chest. Aquiles moved for most and swiped at one. Children often considered sword fights big swipes at each blade. That was not the case. A big swipe left a swordsman open to steel in their gut. He held his blade at an angle making of himself a harder target. He was confident to wait for her to make a mistake. She came again with the same combo but added a dipped swing with a bent wrist to this side.


    Aquiles exploded into motion. He hopped over the blade, low and short as she was, it was easy for him. He landed in a low crouch with his left leg to the side and stood into a jab. She twisted away, and he followed her with heavy crashing blows. Too heavy for a woman of her stature and he too quick for her to make anything of his methodical movement. He slid his blade down hers and slammed her hilt, rattling her hand. Then, he turned in his stance with weight on his front foot and back kicked her guard. She stumbled back.


    Their engagement broke. He watched a single bead of sweat drip from her brow to her cheek. Human after all.


    Pondering, investigating him with animal intensity, Socorra returned to her stance, a look like a big cat from the plains, attention pinned to a rabbit before a quick and easy chase, hardening her face. He returned his own look, cool intensity and logical judgment, but he was shoving anger deep in his throat.


    She sighed and broke off her gaze. Socorra spoke more softly and less sure than before, ¡°We suspected Arturo to be plagued with problems from your separation. He couldn¡¯t be the one to live in the Monastery, all eyes on him.¡±


    ¡°What problems?¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯d like, you could ask Arturo about his childhood in the coming weeks.¡± Socorra¡¯s humor returned to her posture, ¡°You¡¯re going to be spending plenty of time together.¡±


    He didn¡¯t wait to return to stance, and he wouldn¡¯t wait for answers any longer, cryptic messages and veiled turns of phrase. He jabbed out at her, but Socorra turned his blade away. Aquiles took that momentum and spun fully back around to swing low at her feet. As she moved, he directed the blade back up, and she bolted back; but now he scored a blow of his own.


    Socorra¡¯s eyes turned down to a tiny trickle of blood forming on her cheek. ¡°You wanted to hurt me.¡±


    He had become carried away. He had never cut someone with intention before. Sure, accidents happened while training, scrapes and bruises, but he went for blood this time and got it. Aquiles didn¡¯t like the feeling, and Socorra looked¡­ betrayed. She dropped her sword. Her hand shook as she tightened her fingers into a fist.


    ¡°Humbling does not stick with you, does it, Aquiles? You want more and more. You have all the power here with not an inkling of how to use it, and yet you strike out at me.¡±


    The rage stuffed in his throat escaped, ¡°You¡¯ve treated me like DIRT! My WHOLE LIFE! But he gets the family?¡±


    ¡°We raised you to be hard.¡±


    ¡°You raised me into a weapon! Left me without a heart!¡± It hurt to admit it.


    The blood dripped down her cheek like tears, ¡°We needed one of you to be ready to fight, and the other to have the heart to sacrifice. Arturo is a kind soul.¡± She was blurry in his eyes now through his own tears, ¡°Yours is sharp, honed. Dangerous. You will crush them. We have every faith in you, Aquiles.¡±


    Rain sank its aroma into his skull. The air about him caught fire, and his rage turned white hot and shot for Socorra.


    She reached her hand towards him and guided the lightning to blast into the air behind herself, the training ground blinking with stark, white light outshining the sun, and shadow too deep to be natural. Disappointment smoothed Socorra¡¯s face.


    ¡°But we have not taught you anything about being Bolt.¡± She lowered her hands, ¡°So, here¡¯s your first lesson. Do not use your blessings in anger.¡±


    A flash of purple light and heat erupted in his vision. When his sight returned to normal, he was looking up at the sky. Dark clouds were blurry in his eyes, the top of the Monastery barely separated in color from the sky around it. His chest felt empty like it was a void and not flesh and blood. The pain came then, his left arm and hand were on fire, and his hands clutched at his robes. Socorra entered his vision.


    Her hair and clothes were alight with dancing arcs of lightning, and her voice was jumbled and metallic when she spoke. ¡°Be deliberate with your actions, Arm of Us. Do not underestimate your enemy.¡± She touched a sparking finger to his chest, and a jolt shuttered through Aquiles¡¯ body. He gasped for air and felt the blessed return of a heartbeat he wasn¡¯t aware of before it was stopped. Aquiles just stared off to empty space, gulping air into lungs lit in flame and lightning.


    And his soul grew sharper.


    ***


    Barto, the fat one, and the creepy one packed their bags and waited for the wagons to arrive. They were all worried about Arturo. The boy never turned up. If he had some dealings with the church, that was his own business. No sense getting all frazzled over it. ¡°Mierda,¡± he shook his head.


    He¡¯d told the fat one that Arturo was nowhere to be found. The creepy one said he was a grown man and could do as he pleased. Arturo would return home when he wanted. He had money and a mind for travel.


    Barto cursed under his breath again, ¡°Pinche cabron.¡±


    A grating voice behind Barto spoke, hammer on a metal pin, and surprised the little group, ¡°I am with the Ministry, and we have your friend. The Parents told me where to find you. Come with me.¡±


    Barto turned to see a woman, shorter than he by a few thumbs, and with a stocky build. She wore a black robe, and her skin looked¡­ lifeless. She smiled, it looked practiced, but what choice did Barto have; he needed to make sure his friend was ok. ¡°Bueno. We¡¯ll follow.¡± He cocked his head at the stupid pair he stood with. They all followed the Ministry woman.

 Chapter 17

    Chapter 17


    Buenos d¨ªas, mi hijo.


    Prattling of the paranormal pierced Aquiles¡¯ heart with a freezing terror, and he gulped air like a reverse scream. ¡°No, no, no! Not this early again!¡± He looked outside his window at a dark sky, the moon directly overhead at the Parents¡¯ hour, the literal middle of the night and for the second night in a row. He was already wishing he could have just awoken to blasting agony, so he could just go about his day after it subsided. But no. The Mother had to go crazy right along with the Father and blast him from bed at the peak of darkness. A life tortured by ruined sleep, over and unending, was a looming despondency of Aquiles¡¯ outlook on his future.


    Socorra had nearly ended him yesterday. His chest still ached, and the tiny hairs above his heart were singed away. Claws scratched at his skin from his insides, a feeling that could drive him mad.


    Aquiles was too tired to get up and dressed but too wired to close his eyes and go back to sleep. Warm blankets enveloped him in a comforting embrace, rough wool, and he relished in it. He tried not to take too many comforts, he needed to stay hard after all; but he allowed himself this one.


    Was that himself or Socorra talking?


    Desperate to cling to sleep now and prove he was more than a tool for others, Aquiles closed his eyes and breathed out in fake content, intent on slipping back into unconsciousness. That bugging irritation of eyes with no desire to stay closed tickled at the skin on his hands, begged his muscles to throw off the blanket. Anger was a damned good stimulant. Tickles turned to pulling turned to him tossing the blanket to a heap against his wall and jumping from his bed, turning to grab and violently shake the mattress, fabric thwaps ruffling his sheets, the pillow cratering from furious punches. ¡°I just want to SLEEEEEEEP!¡±


    He flung the pillow at his wall, leapt after it in his anger, and stubbed his toe. His eyes bulged. A bent nail and purple skin welcomed him into this fresh hell, and he pushed his other foot on top of the banged-up pinky toe and tried not to scream. Blood rushed in his face, and the heat of his mood was overwhelming. Aquiles punched his mattress and wished he¡¯d been stabbed instead. He hopped around, afraid to put weight on it. ¡°Que pinche di?a!¡± He bit his lip and smacked his thigh to distract himself. He¡¯d rather his heart stop again.


    At last, the torture ended, and Aquiles ached with the desire that his brother was having as bad of a night. The word ¡®brother¡¯ almost came unbidden in his thoughts of the country boy. Disgusting.


    The wool in his robes did not match the comfort of his bed, and, in fact, it felt even rougher than normal. Tearing at the rope cord about his waist, the clothes tightened far too much for his liking, but the constriction was distracting. So he tightened his boot laces until his feet were numb and high-stepped it towards his door.


    Metal squeaked on metal, the hinges always squeaking, useless things, and Aquiles stuck his head into the hallway. The Juans were nowhere to be seen, and Josefa wasn¡¯t lounging around like a bored cat. To be sure, he squinted down both directions of the hallway, focused on the odd nook or cranny she might be hiding in as if she were a quarter her size and made of the night itself. Not satisfied, but without another option, he left his room.


    Aquiles walked down to Arturo¡¯s room. Part of him really hoped his brother would be asleep. In that case, he could just go to the top of the Monastery and watch the shadows meander around the sundial, listen to the distant sounds of a sleepy city, waiting for another unbelievable day in his unbelievable life, pondering what might be at stake training him to use his gifts, training a Greatstorm to know their power. Part of him hoped his brother would be awake. This could be their first time to speak without supervision or chaperoning giants with barely the capacity to speak on their own.


    A scowl pulled on his lip at the thought of the Juans. They moved with such confidence, astounding grace, an awesome ability in coordination with each other. Aquiles didn¡¯t feel it often, but he knew the stab in his gut to be jealousy.


    He arrived at Arturo¡¯s door.


    ***


    Arturo sat on the bed, bent over at his waist, forearms resting on his knees with his head hanging between his legs. He couldn¡¯t sleep, couldn¡¯t stay awake, couldn¡¯t sit, and couldn¡¯t stand. Neither could he find Socorra after his temper got the best of him nor could he stomach the memory of how he¡¯d acted, how he¡¯d pushed back with such poison in his words. Scorn was oil in his water. He sat back and looked around the room before shuffling sounds drifted through the corridor outside his room. Servants had extinguished every other torch beside the one at his door earlier in the night, perhaps saving fuel. That bit of light hadn¡¯t helped with his sleep, but now it illuminated a figure in the hall, uncanny in that Arturo recognized his own thin shoulders on a body without his nigh on lazy stupor.


    His brother stood with an expectant air beyond the door.


    ¡°Do you never sleep?¡± Arturo croaked with a voice betraying he wanted to do just that.


    Aquiles voice sounded fresh and sharp, ¡°It¡¯s starting to feel like I don¡¯t,¡± a juxtaposition of the soft shadows around his face.


    ¡°Please, come in. I¡¯d say make yourself at home, but you live here,¡± Arturo responded in a tone that could have been nicer. His brother creaked open the door to enter the room but stopped and stood just inside the doorway.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure if you¡¯d be awake. I hope I didn¡¯t wake you.¡±


    ¡°Oh no, don¡¯t worry about it. I¡¯ve been awake,¡± he glanced up between his legs at Aquiles and returned his eyes forward, ¡°lot to think about.¡±


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡°Yes, this must be a lot to take in.¡±


    Arturo furrowed his hidden brow at the condescending response. ¡°What was it like living it up in the city?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been out of this pyramid less times than I can count on my fingers,¡± Aquiles scoffed.


    He sat up a little straighter, surprised at the revelation, ¡°Really? That must be maddening.¡±


    Aquiles spat, ¡°You don¡¯t know half of it. Socorra claimed fun would make us too soft to serve the Parents,¡± his voice dying off towards the end as if realizing something for the first time.


    ¡°Well, if she was worried about keeping track of you all, it''s hard to miss a tall, lanky pendejo like you.¡±


    ¡°We are the same height, Arturo.¡±


    Smile and laugh killed by Aquiles¡¯ raised brow and lecturing tone, Arturo sighed and responded, ¡°Yeah I know, I was just- nevermind.¡± Aquiles¡¯ posture made Arturo uncomfortable. ¡°You can sit down and relax, amigo.¡±


    ¡°Actually, would you like to go on a little walk?¡±


    His leg¡¯s screamed no, but his mouth betrayed him, ¡°Sure.¡± So, he followed Aquiles from the room, his heart cursing him with weariness, his mind wanting to learn more about this man.


    Aquiles whispered over his shoulder, ¡°Hood up. I quite believe Socorra would rather kill us both than let you be seen.¡± He took a breath and added, ¡°And, I¡¯m quite sure she¡¯s capable of it.¡± Arturo didn¡¯t appreciate being commanded like that, but he understood the necessity. He drew the hood over his face and mired his features in darkness. ¡°The pyramid¡¯s peak has a beautiful garden and places to relax. It has a good view of the city.¡±


    They walked in silence, fearful of drawing attention from any passerby to their resemblance of each other. One other soul roamed the pyramid this hour, a wizened man sitting and entrenched in the folds of his robe at a bench in the main square, drawing a jaguar in charcoal on a notepad, so lost in the artwork he might have dropped dead for surprise if Arturo tapped his shoulder. Aquiles whispered, ¡°Relic of another time.¡±


    The hike was a daze for Arturo. Each step carried him higher and further from the grounded reality he¡¯d wallowed through by twilight. He emerged into fresh air and a cool breeze, reminders of the larger world around him. ¡°I missed the fresh air,¡± he prodded for conversation.


    ¡°Yes, me too.¡± Aquiles seemed to break free of a trance, ¡°Let us sit by the railing and enjoy the view of the city.¡±


    They moved together along the pathway, between branch and bramble, serrano and cilantro. New aromas tickled Arturo¡¯s nose with each step, spicy, sweet, and serene was this place, and as they walked the garden gave way to wild types of vegetation: small trees, shrubs with tiny flowers, and tall grass. ¡°This is what I grew up in.¡± Arturo passed his hand through the grass. The edges of the blades tugged at his skin, flirty kisses more than sharp pricks. He knew the feeling, and he smiled. Aquiles ignored him. The days must have been long, as well he knew, and Aquiles would be otherwise engaged to say the least.


    A small clearing opened in the garden, and an enormous sundial luxuriated in the moonlight, casting a shadow with an ambiguous grasp on where the light should end and the darkness should take its place. Twenty-seven letters, thirteen on one side, thirteen on the other, and one in the center, were carved into the circle of stone to mark the hour with the dial¡¯s shadow. Arturo stepped through the alphabet in his head and counted the corresponding hour for each letter. After another several paces, the garden opened suddenly to a small viewing deck where eroded stone made up the floor and the thin benches. ¡°They really worked with what they had, huh?¡±


    ¡°Que?¡±


    Arturo gestured around, ¡°Lot of stone, and only stone, around here.¡±


    ¡°What are your structures built with?¡±


    ¡°Whatever we can find, honestly. Some dried mud, some wood, some metal sheeting when we can get our hands on it.¡±


    Aquiles raised his eyebrows and bobbed his head at the answer, ¡°Quaint.¡±


    ¡°Do you always talk like this? Or just with me. Because you don¡¯t seem to want to talk to me very much.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m attempting to unlearn a life¡¯s worth of information that¡¯s telling me to end both of our lives at every opportunity. There¡¯s quite a bit to work through.¡±


    ¡°I heard the same stories as you, Aquiles.¡±


    ¡°Then, perhaps, you didn¡¯t fully understand them. Us, a Greatstorm, if anything about the legends are true, we could level this place with a thought. Even if we¡¯re not destined to be some evil demons, we have a great responsibility to the people here.¡± Aquiles jabbed a finger down towards the city with each phrase.


    ¡°Amigo, if you tell me I don¡¯t understand something one more time, we are going to have a problem. And, if I don¡¯t understand all the implications, I promise I am trying. I have my own worries with this whole situation, can you accept that you are not the only one absolutely ruined by this mess?¡± Arturo waited for a response and got none, ¡°I¡¯m trying to understand.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Aquiles clenched his jaw, ¡°try harder.¡± Twinkling lights down in the city mirrored the smoldering fire building in Arturo¡¯s chest.


    ¡°Do you have some problem with me, hermano? You asked me to come here on this ¡®walk¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± Aquiles¡¯ voice broke, ¡°Don¡¯t call me that.¡±


    ¡°Look at the fingers you point and accuse me with, Aquiles.¡± He waved his fingers in the air. ¡°Listen to your voice! They''re the same as mine! Whether you like it or not. I may not fully understand our situation, but at least I can accept that and learn.¡± Aquiles turned in circles, and Arturo continued, pushing forward, ¡°Can you?¡±


    Aquiles stopped in his revolution of pacing and looked down at the city, at the smolder down there, and a gust of wind blew over them. After many long heartbeats, he said, ¡°Socorra told me you knew my parents.¡±


    Unvoiced anxieties flooded from him and left only relief. Those two were his real parents. ¡°They raised me, yes,¡± and then sternly, ¡°And they were my parents, too. Our parents, hermano.¡±


    Aquiles head twitched back and forth, and with an overly-controlled tone, he asked, ¡°Are they back at your home?¡± Quiet sniffles in the night.


    His own answered better than the word, ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°What happened to them?¡±


    Sniffles into sobs, ¡°They¡¯re dead.¡± Smoke and screaming and acridity and charring meat. ¡°I woke up in a fire. And my papa? threw me through the window. The roof fell on him right after.¡± Arturo breathed out the smoke, ¡°I never saw mama?.¡± Screams. He had heard her. ¡°They¡¯re gone.¡± His brother¡¯s head twitched up and down now hearing the story, and Arturo recognized a man resigned. He felt the same. He could barely remember his mother¡¯s face. He didn¡¯t talk about it much, didn¡¯t like to. This was why. He couldn¡¯t contain his emotions, and he felt too vulnerable; but his brother deserved to know. Their son deserved to know. He choked back another sob.


    Arturo thought of something, ¡°That sombrero I wear. It was his.¡±


    A boy more than a man looked back at him sharply, tears shimmering in the moonlight. He turned back away. ¡°I would like to see that more closely then.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Flapping wings and a screech broke the silence between them. A dark shape moved over the lights of the city. It swooped up above them. Finger-like bones stood out, light shining through thin skin from the moonlight, and Arturo recognized the shape. A bat. Aquiles cocked his head at the passing animal. ¡°We hardly ever get bats out here.¡±


    Arturo chuckled with a throat that wasn¡¯t done crying, ¡°Do you ever come out in the middle of the night?¡±


    That same noise was thrown back at him, ¡°No, I guess I don¡¯t.¡± Aquiles shook his head and laughed again, ¡°I really hate what my voice sounds like.¡±


    ¡°Yo tambien.¡± They both laughed together this time. The bat screeched again.

 Chapter 18

    Chapter 18


    Aquiles rested easier after his conversation with Arturo, after he heard about his parents. It wasn¡¯t closure, not exactly, and a shameful burn still roiled in his gut, a jealousy of his twin he tried with all his might not to stoke; but the knowledge was a soft blanket on his shoulders protecting bare skin from the cold. His brother returned to that prison to sleep away the remaining dawn hours, and Aquiles tried to do the same but failed. Instead, he sat awake on top of his covers, robes on, and sketched something new into the papers dedicated to familiar sundials and rotating night skies. He sketched his mother, or what he thought of her. She wasn¡¯t smiling in his drawings, and that wasn¡¯t on purpose, but her eyes made Aquiles feel a happiness and sorrow tear his heart in two. Soon, he was to get up and train to use the blessings gifted to him by her, and by his father, and by the Parents in the Ministry.


    Fear wracked his chest, a companion to the jealousy, fear that Arturo and he would lay waste to the Monastery and all its innocents out of ignorance or impatience or impotence in restraint. Aquiles almost hoped the powers of a Greatstorm were as much legend as was the lie the Ministry fabricated and forced the Father to disseminate, but the gods¡¯ hope in their ability to help were palpable, and Aquiles¡¯ own hope for a sort of mediocrity waned with each day, waned with the power he had already displayed. His nose had healed from a break in days.


    He dressed for a second time that day and decided to leave his room more conspicuously this time. Waiting for him outside, Other Juan stood with his sinewy and sizable arms crossed just below his equally impressive chest. Aquiles was starting to distinguish the differences in the large twins without the other specimen present for comparison. Differences in their smiles were substantial, and both smiled enough. For example, Juan, the Thunderhead, smiled with a boyish air, lips pulling back near to his ears and laughing lines becoming more and more permanent about his eyes, but Other Juan smiled with a lopsided stupidity that made Aquiles want to snap his fingers in front of the man¡¯s face and see if there would be any reaction. Another obvious tell that this one was the Bolt was Socorra could only trust someone of that blessing to counter any tomfoolery Aquiles might decide to partake in. So, all in all, Other Juan.


    ¡°Vamos a comer, Aquiles.¡±


    Aquiles nodded, returning worry dissuading his appetite from forming. ¡°After you, Juan.¡± The large twin turned and strolled off in the direction of the mess. His laboring steps looked slow, but the length of his strides carried him far. Aquiles scrambled to keep up. He imagined Other Juan¡¯s twin would be fetching Aquiles¡¯ twin. He shivered.


    When they arrived in the mess, Other Juan¡¯s brother was escorting a hooded figure into the kitchen. That would be Arturo. Socorra sat alone at one of the round tables in the center of the hall. It was getting later into the morning, later for the Monastery anyway as the sun had only just broached the mountains, so most Children were done eating breakfast. She motioned Other Juan in the same direction with a nod of her head, and Aquiles followed the giant into the kitchen.


    A punch of aromas assaulted Aquiles. They moved past bustling cooks tending boiling pots of soup and burping vats of frijoles. One station¡¯s cook bent over a row of vials and poured the vile sweet stuff into each one. Slotted pantry doors seemed to open on their own, the hooded visage of Arturo slumped just inside was overshadowed by Juan, twice his size. Cooks moved out of the way of Socorra¡¯s shambling form, and she swiped up several of the vials before walking into the pantry.


    Rows of dried chiles hang from the ceiling, different hues of red, dried blood to scarlet, they shivered with the closing of the door behind the Arm. Aquiles leveled a nod at Arturo, a more familiar gesture than he¡¯d expected it to feel. Arturo nodded back, the effects of too little sleep too late pounded into his drooping eyes. He¡¯d learn to shrug off that feeling while living here. Stores of masa and sacks of rice surrounded where the floor met the wall, wheels of cheese were stacked in mounted shelves, and Aquiles supposed these more subdued smells were quite nice. ¡°Grab some queso,¡± Socorra jerked her head towards the shelves, ¡°and drink as much of this as you can stomach.¡± She handed each of them four vials of stoppered sweet ichor.


    Aquiles screwed up his face in disgust, ¡°Is this necessary? I know the Storms drink it, but it¡¯s so disgusting.¡±


    ¡°Our bodies need energy for lightning and thunder, just like the skies.¡± She pointed vaguely up with a lazy hand, ¡°So, lesson one¡­,¡± she said in a mocking and haughty tone, then glanced at Aquiles, ¡°...of the day, keep your stomach full if you want to do anything with your blessings.¡± She switched back to her typical rough tone, ¡°Sugary stuff seems the quickest to work. The Ministry and Monastery have fueled their Storms with this for centuries.¡± She downed a vial of her own.


    Arturo leaned in, ¡°It¡¯s better with chile? and lime.¡± He picked one of the drying chile?s from the roof, bit it, and downed two vials in quick succession.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard.¡±


    Vortices of dust danced about the pantry, stray rays of light poking through the drifting curtains from some source on a level above, and Socorra stood there in the musty pantry with a grin the Juans would only dream of, ¡°Nos vamos, nin?os.¡± Juan and Arturo left first, hood up and at a brisk pace, no time for anyone to stare, but most people cast their eyes down around the Arm anyway. After a few minutes, Other Juan and Aquiles followed.


    A long walk of consternation led Aquiles to only one large, ugly, and unsightly conclusion. This beast would be a training partner. The oaf smiled back at him as they approached the door behind the statue.


    Aquiles cursed under his breath, ¡°Mierda.¡± Other Juan chuckled.


    ***


    Socorra followed the twins, the double pair of destruction walking out of that crowded pantry and towards a whirlwind of the world to come.  She stopped before leaving the mess hall and looked into the shadowed corner adjacent to the exit, ¡°Keep an eye out for anyone a little too interested in those four.¡± In response, Josefa stepped from her shadow and met Socorra¡¯s eyes, and feeling her guilt to the Monastery¡¯s queen of stealth, she added, ¡°I¡¯m sorry what I said about sacrifices the other night. She wasn¡¯t one. I just wanted to get through that conversation with Aquiles. Believe me, amiga.¡±


    Oblivion seemed to drip from Josefa, her prowess in the darkness and ferocity with those knives she tucked in her belt, ¡°If this is the plan Maria worked so hard to help you and hide from me, then so be it.¡± She became a silent shadow shifting into the crowd in the hall.


    ¡°I know how to pick ¡®em,¡± Socorra sighed to herself.


    Her sore feet carried her to the great hall, but her mind up and left to wander elsewhere. She hated having to be so forceful with Aquiles, but his thick damned skull could only be cracked into with a hard hit. He¡¯d gotten his hit for sure. Tingling and hot, she felt the sensation of reaching for bolts for the first time in years. Socorra was unpracticed, dull, more of a blunt club than a sharp knife, after so much time in disuse. She refused to use the blessing she¡¯d shared with her brother, cultivated with him, after the Ministry punished him for crimes he did not commit, for her own crimes and the schemes she had shared with Maria and all those poor souls. So much death, for this. The Ministry traded in it behind their curtain of benevolence, hid it in wildfires and accidents, but they always got their death.


    Socorra bristled with forgotten rage. It turned to slow embers over the decades, to something careful and crafty, but it threatened to leap with flames anew, searing unknowing flesh with the heat of her intentions. Those men and women, spitting in the face of the Mother and the Father, wielding unrighteous powers and injustice against the people, forsaking the gods of their lives, the Parents of their childhoods. No. Socorra would not stand to share another breath with these heretics. The Parents used to rule with the will of the people, and the people loved them, and the Ministry sought to break that will and the relationship with the gods that made them, sought to control them. But they failed to plan for her, and they failed to plan for the Parents¡¯ love because they had forgotten it.


    She found herself standing at the hatch to the chamber below, staring into the shadow cast by the statue of the Parents, their tied hands an indistinct ball cast over the pews of the hall, she found herself standing in the Father¡¯s shadow. The sculptors got his face wrong, he was a simple looking man, kind, not regal.  Still, it sparked something in her to continue, to see through what she had set in motion twenty-three years ago. All of those Storms had died for this, and please for the health of the Parents and their land, let it not be in vain.


    The hatch thudded behind her as she descended the ladder. The Juans stretched together, moving through various positions to relax their muscles for work. The other twins stood some ten paces off the center of the chamber, awkward, looking around like they didn¡¯t know each other. She had the same nerves her first day, countless years ago, but she had a loving sibling to rely on. What did these boys have? Regardless, Socorra started, ¡°We¡¯re going to run through some breathing exercises and forms together today.¡± The identical twins stared at her dumbly. ¡°Aquiles¡­ Basic breathing and forms of jaguar today.¡±


    The boy seemed to snap out of it. ¡°Oh, perdo?n. The same as I know from the sword?¡±


    ¡°Si?.¡± Socorra was trying to stay calm. She didn¡¯t expect her usual use of tough reinforcement was going to work for this instruction. Yelling at toddlers made them cry and yelling at these two would be equally unproductive. Maybe when they were separate. They knew less about their blessing than her youngest pupils at a mere five years old. Aquiles began to show Arturo different stances and how to move between them. She walked over and around them, ¡°Jaguar forms are all about forming a strong base and switching to useful stances fluidly. Arturo, you will master these.¡±


    His eyes bulged, and he tripped over his feet. ¡°Wide and low,¡± Socorra slapped the back of his leg, and he yelped. Aquiles smirked at that. ¡°You want one?¡± The smirk vanished. Maybe she could be a little tough after all. ¡°As Thunderhead and as a Bolt, you may extend yourself beyond the binds of your skin. Bolts can reach to objects, or targets, and establish a connection. Lightning. Thunderheads push out of themselves. Shockwaves.¡± The Greatstorm moved between two stances of the first form. ¡°Breath, Arturo. Relax. You can¡¯t push if you¡¯re pulling everything in. Feel your pulse to your fingers and back again.¡±


    Aquiles moved as gracefully as anyone Socorra had seen. He¡¯d bested her with ease in the sword last night, given time, he could be a mighty power to reckon with. ¡°You may reach or push from any part of yourself, like you¡¯re extending your very being.¡± The instruction was a meditation for her, the words known and coming without thought, words of generations of Storms, then there was the new with this circumstance that made her hair stand on end. ¡°As a Greatstorm, it is said you should be able to do this to a much greater extent than a typical Storm.¡± She paced around them in circles, adding pointers, slapping, and shoving as needed to get Arturo in the right position. ¡°I¡¯m anxious to see if that¡¯s true.¡±


    Arturo struggled to speak while maintaining his balance in a new stance Aquiles was showing him, feet wide apart and facing forward, legs bent at the knee, ¡°Well, if we¡¯re gonna help the Father anytime soon, are you gonna teach us to use these powers?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re not powers, they¡¯re blessings. And you can already use them. I reckon you¡¯ve been doing it by accident.¡± They both looked like they were trying to hide something, Socorra reckoned she reckoned correctly. ¡°There¡¯s nothing stopping you. Your body just needs the right push.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    ¡°That is all there is to know. Now, time will guide you. Use these breathing exercises when stressed, in through your nose, out through your mouth, reverse it, hold, and you will be able to control your reactions. Emotion can be a powerful tool when using your blessings. It can be a raging fire when you fail to contain them.¡±


    Arturo learned the fourth stance from his brother, then said, ¡°It¡¯s really loud.¡± Socorra just raised an eyebrow at him, so he continued, an invisible weight lifted and left his shoulders broader, his back straighter, ¡°I killed a puma, the first time I used them. I know now, admit now, that¡¯s what it was. And my ears felt ready to burst from the sound. Can I learn to stop that?¡±


    She nodded, ¡°With practice comes finesses, you will be able to shroud your ears with smaller shocks to protect them.¡± Socorra glanced at the ones standing with their fingers in their ears, ¡°Until then, follow their lead.¡±


    Arturo looked in their direction, chuckled, then copied them. She walked over and slapped his legs again, ¡°Wider.¡±


    Aquiles gave his brother an angry and exasperated look. Socorra said, ¡°It''s fine, Aquiles. He needs questions answered. Don¡¯t be so touchy.¡±


    ¡°I already know all of this. Why can¡¯t I move on to actual training?¡±


    ¡°Because being in a Storm is being in a bond. You will train at the same pace and help each other. You think they got to be so good at what they do by chiding each other?¡± She pointed at the gigantic brothers slapping at each other¡¯s faces and ears now, ¡°When they aren¡¯t acting like YOUNG ONES?!¡±


    One last slap resounded in the chamber, sound echoing far longer than was natural, and Thunderhead Juan turned his head a single degree per second like a sudden movement would get him eaten, then they both nodded in unison. Aquiles worked his jaw. Such a subtle man. ¡°Despite their behavior in off-time, those two work harder than anyone around them. With their natural talent, they¡¯re the strongest Storm I have ever seen.¡± Socorra jabbed a finger up at Aquiles chest, ¡°You two could make them look like a fart in the wind. Shape up and shut up, Aquiles.¡± Arturo watched the exchange with eyes wide.


    ¡°And you,¡± Socorra turned her attention to Arturo, ¡°stop acting like a pendejo who doesn¡¯t know his culo from a donkey¡¯s. Aquiles and I told you ten times already, wider feet!¡± She slid his foot out to the side, and he audibly gulped. ¡°We don¡¯t have years to master everything, we have months. The Father can only deceive for so long. When you two can get past whatever odd resentments you have towards each other because of mami? and papi?, we will make real, tangible progress.¡± They both looked furiously at her now, she hit the wrong button there. It was unnerving to see the same muscles standing out in the same cheeks, same nostrils flared, the same cold eyes on two faces locked onto her own.


    Getting past the fear that gripped her, she choked out, ¡°That¡¯s the kind of coordination I¡¯m looking for.¡± They eyed each other. Arturo¡¯s face relaxed, but Aquiles held on to his own anger. By all that is good, a Greatstorm had just stared her down. The very one she sought, and she feared them. That tiny voice in her head, the superstitious and unreasonable bit of her consciousness, stuck in primal ways, still believed the stories of demons razing villages and slaughtering peoples. Surely, it wasn¡¯t true. ¡°Aquiles, have him taught in the entirety of the jaguar forms today. If he can learn them, we can try something more interesting.¡±


    The Arm-in-training took the comment to heart, standing up that instant, arms behind his back, a bit of Horacio¡¯s air about him, a deference to the student¡¯s motions without the approval. And, he said, ¡°I¡¯m rather tired of going through things I learned as a little boy. Let¡¯s work.¡±


    Socorra sat back and leaned against the chamber''s smooth, black wall. She¡¯d let the nin?o teach so long as he wasn¡¯t too horrible to his brother. Aquiles needed to learn how to get his knowledge out of his head and into another¡¯s, a skill with no forms or rules, a skill Socorra had trained in her entire life, a skill she knew nothing of. More so, Socorra had worn herself out with all the energy she spent on Aquiles in an effort to tame his emotions, whether it be electric or emotional. She had felt the so-called blessing eat away at her when she reached for him. She drew on far too much. That boy should have been charred away to nothing, but he took the blow like a bad smack on a training day. A stopped heart was nothing for her to repair, however burnt flesh and melted marrow was mighty difficult to mend. That boy should be dead. It could be an inkling of the power these twins might wield. Socorra shivered.


    Matched movement and labored breathing sent hushed sounds of rubbing fabric and raspy throats bouncing around the chamber like the identical twins were right next to her. The big twins were as calm and composed as ever, steady breaths and serene faces. Those two were models to be studied by Storms for generations to come.


    Arturo, as it turned out, learned rather quickly. It appeared the tenacity of his brother to learn and to master his arts had been shared in the womb if not their upbringing. With a few hours until dinner, Arturo had made his way through every stance in the first jaguar form. ¡°Have you practiced anything like this before, nin?o?¡± Arturo looked at Aquiles like he thought Socorra was addressing the new Arm. ¡°I mean you, pendejo.¡±


    ¡°Lo siento,¡± he looked down sheepishly, ¡°I was a shepherd. We didn¡¯t practice things like this. We guided sheep.¡± Socorra raised an eyebrow at him. He continued, ¡°I guess there¡¯s a lot to learn fast when you start out. You can¡¯t lose sheep in the herd. Each animal is worth a week¡¯s living in wool.¡±


    ¡°Regardless, you¡¯re doing very well, Arturo.¡± Positive remarks worked on this one very well.


    ¡°Gracias,¡± he grinned, half-surprised and half-ecstatic. Time to rub it in and work the other one.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it impressive, Aquiles?¡± A test of the boy¡¯s demeanor and state of mind.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to move on to the use of our gifts. You said if he learned we could move on,¡± he ignored. Arturo wiped sweat from his brow, several hours of standing in squatted positions was taxing. Aquiles¡¯ brow was dry, but his eyes dripped magma.


    ¡°I said that. Are you satisfied with how your brother performed today, or not?¡±


    Aquiles barked a laugh, ¡°What does it matter what I think? He learned it, didn''t he?¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t just about him. It¡¯s about you together. If you don¡¯t think he¡¯s ready, then you have more to teach.¡±


    ¡°He picked up everything faster than anyone I¡¯ve seen! Are you happy?¡± Shout ringing around the chamber. Arturo raised both his eyebrows, seemingly impressed with himself. Socorra watched the jealousy pour from Aquiles'' down-turned mouth and hard glare.


    ¡°He¡¯s an adult, Aquiles. We teach these basic forms to nin?os. You were how old when you learned this?¡± Aquiles pushed his lips together and shook is head, and his brother looked let down by her statement. ¡°Cuantos an?os tenias, Aquiles?¡±


    ¡°Five!¡±


    ¡°And you can¡¯t take that your brother, a grown man, learned it faster than a five year old?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not about-¡±


    ¡°Stop.¡± Then she breathed in.


    ¡°You both did well today. Arturo, you learn quickly. Don¡¯t begin to think you¡¯ll pick up on everything so quickly. Aquiles, you taught well. Rid yourself of the jealousy you¡¯re feeling toward your brother. He¡¯s been nothing but sincere with you.¡±


    Aquiles scowled at her then turned to his twin. The boy gave him a questioning look. Aquiles scowled at his twin too.


    ¡°You cannot learn to use your blessings out of anger or hatred. They must come from within, as your breath does.¡± Socorra stared Aquiles down. ¡°Are you calmed, nin?o?¡±


    Aquiles breathed deeply through his nose then exhaled with control, his breath out a slow rush of air. He closed his eyes as his lungs ran dry, breathed in again normally, shoulders falling into that relaxed, lithe posture he always carried. ¡°Yes, Child. I am calm.¡±


    ¡°Bueno.¡± She smiled at him. ¡°Use our lessons to train your sense of self, your calm and your mind.¡± She snickered, ¡°I can¡¯t slap your mind to widen its stance, but I will beat you into mindfulness if I must.


    ¡°Ok, as promised,¡± Socorra beckoned the Juans over with a flick of her wrist. They walked in unison and took positions across from their counterparts in the Greatstorm. ¡°Do not reach far, and do not push hard.¡± Juan and Juan took up dueling stances, the Bolt stood to the side, left shoulder towards Aquiles, and the Thunderhead dropped his weight and spread his legs, chest towards Arturo.


    ¡°Aquiles first. Reach out your hand and let your mind touch Juan here.¡± She jabbed the Bolt in his chest again, the physical reenactment of their previous engagement. ¡°Feel your breath and energy move from your gut to your fing-¡±


    An arc of lightning lit the chamber with a blue hew. It lasted an instant. Juan took it straight in the chest and small arcs danced from his fingers to the ground. The smell of rain flooded the chamber and a faint zip echoed across the walls. Bolt Juan smiled widely and clapped his hands at the performance, ¡°Si?, si?! Que bueno!¡±


    ¡°Si?, muy bien,¡± Socorra agreed. Aquiles looked more sure of himself now, more comfortable. ¡°You will learn to redirect the reach of another Bolt like Juan in time, Aquiles.¡± He nodded in the affirmative.


    Disbelief riddled Arturo¡¯s face and stance. ¡°What did you expect¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± he stammered, ¡°it just feels so much more real now.¡±


    ¡°As real as it gets. Now, listen to my full instructions and do not interrupt me like your brother.¡± Aquiles smirked.


    ¡°Yes, Child.¡± The same voice as his brother spoke the same words, but it sounded foreign on Arturo¡¯s lips.


    ¡°You must focus differently. Breathe and push your mind outwards. Let it ride a wave towards Juan.¡±


    ¡°Can I plug my ears?¡±


    ¡°Si?, nin?o,¡± she stopped, then gestured at Aquiles and the Juans, ¡°best we all do. You don¡¯t need your hands. Neither do you Aquiles, but it will help to use them for a while.¡± Both nodded. Thunderhead Juan straightened his hands, making of them blades to cut the coming shockwave. Arturo placed his fingers in his ears and grunted. The chamber echoed his grunt, but no shockwave. After a few moments, Arturo let out a loud puff of breath.


    ¡°I pushed so hard, but nothing happened,¡± Arturo panted.


    ¡°You tensed. You didn¡¯t push.¡± Socorra walked over and reached up to his sweaty face. She gave him a couple pats on the cheek. ¡°We can¡¯t learn everything on the first try. Continue your forms and breathing until dinner. You can try again tomorrow. Very few produce any results on their first try.¡± At that, Aquiles drew himself up, moving from comfortable to proud. Damn, that boy was difficult. ¡°You figured it out before we even started. Don¡¯t break your hand stroking your¡­ pride.¡±


    The brothers all continued repeating the stances of the form. Socorra paced again in circles, slapping here and giving tips there, but soon, they broke for dinner. The Juans escorted their counterparts out, Arturo with his hood drawn up and sweat soaking his robes. Socorra stayed behind to update the Father on their progress.


    ***


    ¡°No importa, Arturo. Pronto,¡± Juan tried to cheer him up. Arturo was disappointed in himself. This was all so foreign, and he didn¡¯t know how to feel anything in his body through anywhere. Was he supposed to just imagine it?


    ¡°Gracias, Juan.¡± How odd they were both named Juan. There must be some deeper reason. Maybe sharing a name strengthened whatever bond existed between a pair in a Storm. Arturo was determined to learn as fast as possible. The sooner he could help Socorra right this business of the Ministry and put all of this behind himself, the sooner he could see Valeria again.


    Buenos dias, mi hijo.


    Arturo yelped, then straightened his face. Juan spun around and looked about them. ¡°Que paso?¡±


    ¡°Nada,¡± Arturo shook his head and acted confused, ¡°nada.¡±


    ***


    Aquiles walked silently behind Other Juan. He took pride in what he accomplished today. He hadn¡¯t produced any lightning like that since his accident with Jorge in the training ground, and now, he¡¯d done it on purpose. His success tempered his anger towards his brother. One short conversation in the night would not solve a life¡¯s worth of time spent with his true parents.


    At least, Aquiles had shown him up in the end.


    A tinge of shame stabbed at his heart for this resentment he held towards Arturo. He stamped it out and reveled in his newfound abilities. He would be untouchable. He put his hands behind his back and extended his fingers out.


    Pop.


    ***


    Socorra swept into the Children¡¯s mess, a judging murmur following her, a predator prowling prey, or maybe some internalized guilt at her actions and schemes she refused to recognize was beginning to paint her perspective. She waited for it to start.


    It would be more like the execution broadcasts than the conversations. The conversations were fast, this would be less so. Child Lola, nose full of star charts and mouth full of horchata, raised a milky grin up to Socorra¡¯s entrance. The Arm had once been good friends with the women, but they¡¯d grown apart. She¡¯d grown apart from most, even Josefa could be a stranger sometimes. Lola¡¯s eyes grew distant, and Socorra closed her own, took deep breaths, bidding these moments of calm before the Storm. At her direction, the Father was showing the monks the truth now, the lies of the Ministry, the fact the Union was controlling the Parents, cutting against everything that the governing body should stand for, everything these monks knew to be true. The monks would not stand for this, Socorra hadn¡¯t, but they couldn¡¯t know the whole truth, couldn¡¯t know about the boys.


    And her guilt grew.


    And Lola¡¯s eyes came back to her own.


    And Socorra¡¯s old rage lit new in her old friend¡¯s eyes.


    And that rage lit in the eyes of all the monks around her.


    The master botanists. The master astronomers. The master poets. The master sculptors. The master healers.


    The master archers. The masters of the spear, of the staff, of the knife, and of the sword.


    And Socorra knew her plan would work with these men and women behind her. They looked to her for her plan. They followed her to the main square where the Father had told all his Children to gather after he dumped his centuries of pain and desperation into each of them, and she climbed the dais at the center, and she called over the sea of her rage finally roiling in the Monastery, in these masters and in these warriors.


    ¡°We will begin training to take back our Parents from those heretics that would seek to control them. We only have months.¡±


    And a resolve spread through the crowd, silent, for these monks were, above all, masters of themselves.


    Guilt consumed her as she prepared her mind to train her true weapon: the Greatstorm.

 Chapter 19

    Chapter 19


    Buenos dias, mi hijo.


    Aquiles let out a low groan. It grew louder and more tired and more angry until it turned into a yell. ¡°Puta! Puta! Puta! Por que yo? Pinche puta!¡± He¡¯d been woken up from his sleep again, not the nice little greetings he used to receive as his mind became conscious, no, he was torn from a deep sleep into a cold room with his nose dry and raw from the end-of-summer mountain air. He flew out of his bed and screamed out his window, hands flung to the sky.


    ¡°Mira! Todavia esta noche! Puta!¡± He hammerfisted his windowsill until the skin on his hands became raw and tender. ¡°Do you not see I¡¯m trying to sleep, Mother? Why do you insist on waking me in the middle of the damned night?¡± He leaned out and looked up, the moon sitting right overhead. ¡°Yup, first hour of the day. AGAIN!¡±


    Aquiles stormed over to his clothes and dressed, fumbling with irate fingers at impossible knots. His head got stuck at an awkward angle against his robes with his arms held up by the fabric. He shook and screamed and spun in circles, and he set about cursing and jerking around the room. His back knocked into the wardrobe, and the clothes inside came off their hangers and fell to the floor. At last, his arms came free, and he pointed out toward the Ministry and shouted, ¡°You¡¯re cleaning that up!¡± Then he did up his boots. ¡°Voy a caminar! It¡¯s going to be so incredibly relaxing!¡± Aquiles threw open his door and slammed it behind him, uncaring about waking others up. He murmured curses at the Mother and his clothes and the walls and himself as he stomped down the hallway. He doubted Arturo would be awake again, they¡¯d had a very long day yesterday, and Aquiles knew it, he felt it in his bones and his heavy eyes and limbs; but it turned out he wouldn¡¯t be sleeping it off this night. The pyramid was buzzing with restlessness after the Father¡¯s revelations, and he was buzzing with tenfold energy.


    He entered the main square of the pyramid, and the old Child from the night before sat in the center again. ¡°Que hace?s?¡± Aquiles interrogated.


    The man looked over at him and then around himself, ¡°Sitting, hombre?,¡± the man responded, like he was explaining the sky was blue.


    Well, Aquiles insisted it was green, ¡°Why don¡¯t you go to sleep?¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you, hombre??¡±


    That wore the initial rage off, and he was at a loss for words.


    ¡°That, Child, is a fantastic question!¡±


    ¡°Lo se?,¡± the man responded, and the sky was back to blue. Aquiles turned and flew up the stairs this time, body floating over the ground with great bounds of his legs skipping multiple steps. Perhaps he could scream more at the Mother from the top of the pyramid again. Maybe that grass Arturo was so fond of had some intrinsic calming property to keep his brother in such good spirits all the time. Ah, Arturo, so innocent and ignorant. Ah, is this how I stand? Que pena. Aquiles mocked him more, screwing up his face and taking his time to stop at each landing of the stairs to perform an incorrect stance, emphasizing the stupidity of his brother¡¯s stupid movement. ¡°Oh, is this a fist? Oh¡­¡± Then, he realized he shared all the facial expressions and audible gaffs he was mocking and stopped mid-sentence. ¡°Pendejo.¡±


    The stairs were a blur under him, and his breathing grew heavy and labored. He noted running up and down the pyramid stairs could be a good conditioning tool and filed the thought away for later recall. He blasted through the opening to the peak, and there stood Child Emilia, dark skin drinking in the moonlight. His fury ended in an instant.


    ¡°Aquiles?¡±


    ¡°Emilia?¡±


    ¡°What are you doing up here?¡±


    Aquiles let out a nonchalant sigh to hide his heavy breathing, ¡°Oh, just a midnight stroll.¡±


    ¡°Me too,¡± she responded with such cheer Aquiles came close to vomiting at her feet. Her voice pitched up so high at the end that he winced and poked at the inside of his ear.


    Aquiles looked around, searching for words to say, so he picked the worst possible for some reason, ¡°Would you like to join me?¡±


    ¡°Por supuesto!¡±


    ¡°Fantastic.¡±


    Emilia bobbed alongside Aquiles. Extra empty space between them did not seem to be a driving metric for her enjoyment, bumping his shoulder with every other step. He took a step to the side and absently brushed at his robe where she¡¯d touched, out of discomfort rather than disgust. The untroubled girl didn¡¯t notice, and just moved closer again. ¡°So,¡± she squeaked, ¡°couldn¡¯t sleep?¡±


    Aquiles played the Mother¡¯s greeting over and over in his head, ¡°Nope.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that.¡± She watched him, expecting more.


    Alas, he resigned himself to the small talk, ¡°You couldn¡¯t sleep either?¡± His voice had to be oozing with fake interest, but Emilia didn¡¯t notice. Didn¡¯t notice or looked past it.


    ¡°Nope! I was pretty caught up in an idea I had!¡± She yanked his arm and pulled him to a stop next to a bush bristling with chiles. ¡°So, I found that plants of different fruits and other flowers next to each other grew with traits shared between the two parent species.¡± She couldn¡¯t keep up with breathing and her rapid information dump at the same time, so she breathed out at the end of every other sentence, ¡°And better yet, flavor is one of the main traits I could share! So, I was wondering how two types of chile? would react when planted next to each other. Would the result be spicier, milder, more floral, or some weird, unexpected thing?¡± Her breath ran out, and she leaned back as she sucked in another thousand words worth of air, ¡°What do you think?¡±


    Aquiles kept his act up, ¡°Wow, I just haven¡¯t a clue. Why don¡¯t you plant some and see?¡±


    ¡°I already did!¡± She pointed with a finger Aquiles only now realized was covered in dirt at a disturbed section of soil next to the blooming plants. ¡°Jalapen?o y habanero. I can¡¯t wait!¡±


    ¡°I would love to try them when they¡¯re grown.¡± That was a lie. He would not. ¡°I love trying different things like that.¡± That was a lie. He did not. ¡°It is a very interesting finding, Child Emilia.¡± That part could be debated to be closer to the truth.


    ¡°Gracias!¡± She bubbled with excitement and danced on her tiptoes.


    They continued through the garden, Aquiles doing everything he could to avoid more conversation. His walking partner looked at the moon and traced her finger on the sundial. She passed over the ¡®1¡¯ and the ¡®A¡¯ next to it, leaving a bit of rich soil at its base, and he watched the miniscule clumps break apart and fall into the grooves of the markings before flinging his eyes about the circle. A thought began to form in his mind.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Emilia broke the chain with an exclamation, ¡°Wow! The city is so pretty from up here!¡±


    Aquiles broke his eyes from the sundial and looked out over the city. ¡°Si?, que tan bonita.¡± The truth at last.


    He stood just behind and to her right, hands folded behind his back, and his eyes on the twinkles in hers, a bit of the starlight up above come down to La Terra for a moment to grace him and the city. Her hair flung about with a turn, and he shook himself.


    She prodded, ¡°You¡¯ve been promoted to a full rank of Child too now, yes? On top of becoming the Arm of Us of course.¡± She flaunted her own early promotion, a result of her studies in botany. Aquiles was impressed.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    She looked at her feet then, seeming to rile something up within herself, and she asked, ¡°Would you like to show me some of your moves with the sword? With the news of the Parents and everything, it could be useful for me.¡±


    Aquiles froze, and his chest tightened with anxiety. People never wanted to do stuff with him. Even Josefa figured that out within a quarter hour of meeting him, so he laughed with his practiced, derisive energy and shook his hands and did all the things to let her know he didn¡¯t want to, and he replied, ¡°Lo siento, Emilia. But, with my own training as the new Arm¡­¡± And training with his identical twin. ¡°...I just don''t have the time or desire to be wasting hours showing a botanist how to swing a sword.¡±


    And that was a lie, too.


    ¡°No, no. I understand.¡± She bowed her head, the typical deference to his superior station. She continued, ¡°It was a pleasant walk, Child. I will retire to bed now.¡±


    She¡¯d called him ¡®Child¡¯, and not his name.


    Before, she was calling him by his name.


    ***


    Arturo awoke to the burn in his hands, feet, and heart. He¡¯d gotten a taste of his lifelong affliction every morning of the past several days, ever since the Mother became silent at the dawn, readying herself to surprise him in the afternoon. The pain receded, and Arturo could breathe again. It was less of a torment and more an annoyance. These little reminders made him wonder why he was always so eager to lose his pain, it was familiar, part of his home.


    After a few days¡¯ sleep, Arturo determined the bed was indeed softer than he was used to. It took him time to tell the difference, it wasn''t something he ever paid attention to, rather over his life he¡¯d learned to sleep mostly without a blanket and still as stone, else his skin and muscles alight in agony and refuse him his sleep. His bones creaked and his joints popped as he stretched and yawned. El Mercado Rojo wafted into his room with its scents and meandered in with its sounds, but his previous experience with the shaft encouraged Artruo not to go shoving his face up to catch a glimpse of the city above. He was weary of any terrifying visions in his alone time. Yet, no voice called to him, and no disgusting gore flooded his room.


    A craving for the warmth of hot water pulsed in his skin. He pushed aside his memory of the heat of blood soothing his hands in his visions. The voice he¡¯d heard all those times sounded similar to the Father¡¯s, yet he knew now, definitively, what the revered god¡¯s voice sounded like. He couldn¡¯t reconcile the crazed rantings of the visions with the Father he¡¯d spoken with. Socorra had said the god was unstable, so he supposed he would believe her.


    She had come the night before to tell him to wash himself and his robes. She said he smelled worse than, quote, ¡°Un culo de un burro.¡± Then, he had sniffed himself, and it turned out her quip was less offensive than the stench in his underarms.


    Cold metal chilled Arturo¡¯s fingers. He stuck his face into the grated opening on his door and looked into the hallway for anybody to ruin his plans to get clean. He turned his head and pressed his ear to the opening. His chest grew hot as he held his breath, waiting and listening for people. Arturo heard nothing, so he pulled on his door. Socorra had been kind enough to leave it unlocked now. He closed the door behind him with a delicate pull on the handle. The torches in the hallway were placed at larger intervals than the rest of the Monastery he¡¯d walked through. The workers must not want to come change the lights out for an uninhabited section of the pyramid. If he worked here, Arturo would neglect this section entirely, to be honest with himself.


    Feet shuffled behind him. Arturo¡¯s heart jumped out of his throat when an unfamiliar voice questioned, ¡°Hola?¡±


    So, he croaked, ¡°Hola,¡± in response. It came out deeper than his real voice, so he rolled with it, and didn¡¯t turn around. A less grimy set of robes with a hood covered his head and face. For now.


    The voice got closer. ¡°I don¡¯t see many people down here.¡±


    ¡°Si?, I was just doing laundry for a Child.¡± That sounded natural.


    Closer still. ¡°Hm, laundry normally gets done upstairs.¡±


    Mierda. ¡°Si?, pero¡­,¡± Arturo ached for a reasonable reply, then he got one somewhat based in reality, ¡°this Child is embarrassed by their stench and wanted the clothes washed separately.¡± Arturo identified the stranger to be a man from his voice, but the man couldn¡¯t be much older than he was. He turned, keeping his head down to hide his face, and held the dirty robes up. The man made it to him and sniffed and swiped at his nose, Arturo only catching the wave of the man¡¯s forearm below the brim of his hood.


    ¡°Oh! I bet it¡¯s Horacio, isn¡¯t it? That old geezer stinks to hell!¡± The stranger seemed to contemplate for a second, ¡°Please, don¡¯t tell him I said that. I¡¯ll be mopping in the rain for weeks.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t, I promise.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. Me lla?mo Emiliano. Y t¨²?¡±


    Arturo panicked, ¡°Miguel.¡± Believable enough. Why wouldn¡¯t it be?


    ¡°I come down here to get away from everything. My brother has been a real jerk lately. Just need some alone time.¡±


    Arturo wasn¡¯t sure why this man was sharing his life with him, but he responded in kind, ¡°Si?, I like my alone time too.¡± Emiliano didn¡¯t try to look at his face, the privilege of a worker was that no one looked at you.


    ¡°Jorge?, he¡¯s a piece of work. I don¡¯t know what got him so hot-headed.¡± Emiliano tsked and continued, ¡°I just wanted to gain us favor with the Arm, and the Arm of Us. Been trying to do stuff for Child Socorra. Running messages and errands. It. Is. Exhausting. And, on top of it all. We may be confronting the Ministry in the future about their abuse of the Parents. I haven¡¯t even internalized that one yet! Doesn¡¯t even seem real!¡± Emiliano clearly had no one to vent to in his life, but Arturo was used to it. He enjoyed giving people his ear if it made them feel better. ¡°And don¡¯t get me started on Aquiles. That guy¡¯s got some reputation, you know? Do they talk about him among all of you guys too?¡±


    Red vats and dead babies took up Arturo¡¯s mind, the Father screaming. He took a second before realizing Emiliano had asked him a question, ¡°Oh, no. No talking about the monks. Solo trabajamos.¡±


    The shadow of a nodding head was cast onto the wall, ¡°Huh, very respectable, I like that.¡± He dipped his head to try and see Arturo¡¯s face. Mierda. He thought the man would just ignore it. So, Arturo feigned dropping the clothes and bent over to hide his face and pick them up.


    ¡°Woah there! Looks like you gotta get dirt and stink out of those robes!¡±


    Arturo laughed and tried to hide his nervous energy, ¡°Si?, si?. Don¡¯t tell Horacio, please!¡± He faked a joking tone, trying not to faint.


    ¡°Absolutely not. My lips are sealed, amigo.¡±


    That seemed to be the end of it then¡­


    Emiliano sighed and kept talking, ¡°It must be a thing with old men to stink. Some rough looking viejo came cursing and hollering into the great hall the other day looking for some random guy. Man, he smelled like he slept in a pigsty.¡±


    Arturo was so glad the man kept talking that his heart was now fully out of his throat and plopped onto the ground. Barto had come looking for him. Who else could possibly fit that description? He held his breath, wheezing, ¡°Did he have two younger guys with him?¡±


    ¡°What? No, just the old guy. Why?¡±


    Que pinche dolor. ¡°Oh, uh, mi tio. He¡¯s always cursing and hangs around with younger people. I thought maybe it was him.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, maybe it was him.¡± Emiliano laughed off the awkwardness. The man wasn¡¯t charming, and he might have been more nervous than Arturo talking to a stranger; but to Arturo, that was charming all on its own. It was nice having someone be nice.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll be around more if things up there get more frustrating.¡± Emiliano pointed towards the ceiling. ¡°Hope I see you around again, Miguel.¡±


    ¡°Me too, Emiliano.¡±


    The nice man nodded at him and turned back the way he¡¯d come, seeming to be satisfied with relieving his stresses into a listening ear. Arturo was happy to help and felt incredible relief at not finding out what nice men think of Greatstorms.

 Chapter 20

    Chapter 20


    Another day, another silent morning, another prickle of pain, his last reminder. Arturo would learn today, or he would be leaving, lies or not, brother or not, helping the Father or not. A knock came at his door, and he fixed his attitude. Juan¡¯s round face appeared in the opening in the door, the big man bent at his waist like he was talking to a little kid.


    ¡°Buenos dias, Arturo.¡±


    And he responded with a content, ¡°Buenos dias, Juan.¡± Juan smiled at Arturo. He couldn¡¯t remember the last time someone other than Valeria had been so happy to see him. He hoped she¡¯d be happy to see him again after a late return home.


    ¡°Esta?s listo?¡± Juan questioned.


    ¡°Sure am!¡± Arturo popped up and threw on his robe. The giant never stopped smiling through the door. What a nice couple of men these brothers were. Juan pulled open the door, slow, as if careful not to break it, as if he learned in the past just how easily his strength could break something, and Arturo couldn¡¯t comprehend what Juan and his twin were capable of. Arturo didn¡¯t know whether to be worried or excited about learning just what he and his brother would be capable of, but his anxiety about learning how to use his blessings was decisive enough on that front.


    Musky air met him in the hallway, the torches flicking in suspended dust. He followed Juan, hooded and careful, the possibility of running into Emiliano weighing on him, the race to figure some sort of explanation for his escort running rampant through his mind. He would have to be the one to explain, after all, Juan wasn¡¯t the most eloquent person he¡¯d ever met. Arturo was hungry, he tore at his fingernails, but they made it to the mess without incident and found their way to the pantry.


    Aquiles pouted in the corner with an unstopped vial of the syrup in his hand, glancing at it like he was asked to drink horse piss.


    He had dark circles under his eyes like he hadn¡¯t slept well again, and Arturo determined his brother could use some tequila and a fun night out. Conversely, Arturo felt well rested and ready to train, and if he didn¡¯t figure it out today, he would be done with all this craziness anyway. Nothing to worry about. He was determined to knock Juan off his big feet. He would be so happy for Arturo.


    Socorra shoved a vial into Arturo¡¯s hands. ¡°Mira. Arturo, drink up. You¡¯re getting loud today, nin?o.¡±


    He gulped, somewhere between wanting to help or flee. Regardless, Arturo downed one delectable, sweet slurp then continued onto a second. He chased it with lime and smacked his lips.


    ¡°Disgusting,¡± Aquiles choked.


    ¡°Callete?, aren¡¯t you all about ¡®fueling my body¡¯,¡± Socorra mocked him with a deep voice.


    ¡°Si?, pero¡­¡±


    ¡°Pero nada. Drink the syrup, or you¡¯re not coming with us.¡±


    That secured a scowl from Aquiles, then he decided Arturo was deserving of the expression as well, so the scowl was sent his way too.


    ¡°Put on a new face, hermano. I¡¯m not doing this today.¡±


    ¡°New face,¡± Aquiles spat and shook his head. He yanked the cork off a vial and choked down its contents. He drank the ichor from a second and third to make his point. Aquiles spread his hands as if at the end of a performance.


    ¡°Gracias,¡± Socorra chirped. ¡°Juan, bring the bag of vials. If we make good progress, we might need some more fuel.¡± Both brothers reached for the bag and knocked their heads against each other, then both of the brothers leaned back and chuckled, rubbing their foreheads. They cocked their heads at each other and pointed at the bag, then looked at Socorra. She watched them with her jaw hanging half open, then just turned and left the pantry. ¡°Hood up, nin?o.¡± The Juan on the left, Arturo had lost track of which was which, shouldered the bag. It clinked an incessant rhythm as Aquiles put on a bigger and bigger frown.


    ***


    Aquiles¡¯ throat was thick with mucus and bile, and his stomach twisted from all that syrup sloshing around in him. He did not feel ready for a day of training, yet as he walked to the sound chamber, he felt a warmth grow over his body, his eyes lifting and his steps feeling solid. His stomach still felt a little sick, but he also felt like he could run a mile. He hoped there were no negative consequences of ingesting so much sugar at once.


    Creaking wood echoed and bounced off the walls of the chamber as his weight bent the rungs of the ladder. The sounds weren¡¯t as intense as before, and Aquiles noticed the wall was lined with hay. ¡°Trying to help us in case your brother decides to blast us away with a shockwave today by accident. The hay should absorb some of the sound, so we don¡¯t go deaf.¡± Socorra spoke and walked by Aquiles without slowing.


    Arturo was climbing down the ladder now and asked, ¡°Who brought it all here?¡±


    ¡°Blindfolded Young Ones. Horacio found them smoking tobacco they¡¯d gotten from the city somehow,¡± Socorra got the words out through her chuckles. ¡°There¡¯s an exit like the one near the mess hall upstairs. Leads out to some stables on the other side of the city wall. Pretty good if you ever needed to sneak out.¡± She pointed to the spot in the circle opposite the ladder, ¡°Small square, bit less gloss than the rest. Alright, nin?os. Warm up with the forms.¡±


    Aquiles groaned while Arturo¡¯s head shook with emphatic nods.


    ***


    Step, step, hiss. Step, step, hiss. A conspicuous cadence, but Josefa tried to keep the hisses of pain quiet. She should be dead. She was making her typical rounds about the Monastery, keeping an ear out for talk of the Arm and the Arm of Us and any story of said Arm of Us in two places at once, all at Socorra¡¯s order. Josefa heard nothing. Her feet screamed at her, toenails peeling back from the skin. Every movement she made prompted a demand from her body to stop. She should be dead. There couldn¡¯t be thunder without lightning, and her Bolt was gone. Socorra now saw it fit to rub that in her face, putting them all in danger with a Greatstorm in their halls.


    Josefa took the stairs in stride. Walking on level ground, walking upstairs, doing squats, being stabbed, it didn¡¯t matter. She was at her threshold of the pain she could manage at every second of every day. She wished she was dead. She knew that about herself, but she never vocalized it, not even in her own mind. Tried not to at least. Josefa lowered her head. Perhaps some food would make her feel better, she could return to her rounds after grabbing a bite to eat. Then, the rest of her route would carry her to the pyramid peak.


    Quiet dribbles of voice and murmurs ensconced Josefa in the crowd, and she lost herself in it, let herself be lost, drifted through, diaphanous. No one could track her through all the people. Her height was an advantage. No one noticed her. No one ever did. She was Socorra¡¯s shadow, the ghost of the Monastery. Here, she haunted. Here, she knew the place of every rock, dust mote, and pimple.


    So, when she arrived at the entrance to the mess hall and noticed the slightest lip in the stone in the hallway further down, she froze. Someone had used the tunnel. Workers and servants had never left an improper seal on the door, and they weren¡¯t scheduled for a shift swap. Had it been Socorra, or someone else, in a rush for some reason? Josefa looked around her, and satisfied she wasn¡¯t being watched, snuck into the tunnel. She called out, ¡°Socorra? Aquiles? Juan? Any staff?¡± Only her echoed voice responded. Whoever had been here ran off.


    Or they were in the Monastery.


    ***


    Arturo¡¯s legs strained with his weight in the first stance of the jaguar form. Sweat beaded on his brow, then he felt it. He swore he could feel the breath in his chest move through his gut and into his fingertips. He wanted to try again. He wouldn¡¯t fail this time.


    Couldn¡¯t.


    ¡°Child Socorra,¡± he grunted, ¡°I think I¡¯m ready now. I finally understand what feeling to focus on.¡±


    Socorra stopped her pacing and walked in front of him. Even in this squatted position, Arturo had to drop his head to meet her eye. ¡°Up!¡± She slapped his chin, and he raised his head, and his eyes broke from hers. ¡°That¡¯s a good first step, Arturo.¡± She continued pacing.


    ¡°So, I can try again?¡±


    Socorra giggled and shook her head, ¡°Replicate that feeling over your next two hundred breaths, and we can try again.¡±


    Aquiles groaned again for the three hundredth time that day. Socorra cocked her head at him. ¡°We can make it five hundred breaths if you don¡¯t think the original amount was sufficient.¡±


    At that, he cleared his throat and moved to the next form, feet wide and placed his right forward and left back, hands held at chest level with fingers straightened like blades. ¡°No, Child. That won¡¯t be necessary.¡± Aquiles looked straight at Arturo, ¡°I have full faith my brother will learn enough after the first task.¡± This man could be a menace. Arturo shivered and energy tickled his fingertips with the next breath as well.


    ***


    Josefa was a wraith in the crowd. She scanned the monks and the Young Ones, each and every face, for someone that might not belong in the Monastery. Her heart was a drum in her chest, the first time the Monastery needed its guards¡¯ skills in full, and the Juans were off galivanting with Greatstorms. For the time being, she was able to forget her pain and focus on the task at hand. Josefa had let someone into the Monastery. She should be dead.


    A scream ripped over the crowd from up ahead.


    Josefa snapped her head in the direction and shoved her obstacles out of the way. Children and Young Ones, men and women, young and old alike she pushed on, racing towards the devastation that awaited her. Josefa arrived to meet an absolute mess. A young woman, dark skin and long hair, stared down at the spear protruding from the pot of plants in her hand. Blood dripped to the floor, and everyone made a circle around them. Josefa looked the woman up and down.


    The woman snatched the spear from the Young One¡¯s hands and sucked on a small cut on her thumb. ¡°You careless little cretin! You busted my West Mountainous fern pot and cut my thumb! You will be on punishment for months! I will be talking to your weapons master about this!¡±


    Air rushed back into Josefa¡¯s lungs, along with the relief that nothing bad had happened here, nothing beyond a mostly harmless accident. ¡°Thank the Parents,¡± Josefa breathed her full lungs out.


    The young woman spun on her now, ¡°You think this is a good thing? That plant is nearly extinct, and this young man just endangered one of the last of its species!¡±


    ¡°Lo siento. I only worried something worse had happened.¡±


    ¡°Like what, murder?¡± Well, yes actually. ¡°Nothing like that happens here,¡± the young Child continued, ¡°you will run to Child Horacio at once and tell him Child Emilia sent you for the worst punishment he can imagine right now!¡±


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a Young One here, you can¡¯t order me around like that,¡± Josefa responded with an equal attitude to Emilia.


    The woman¡¯s haughty demeanor evaporated, and her shoulders sagged. ¡°Ah, I¡¯m sorry, hermana. I¡¯ve just had a bad couple of days.¡± She looked at the terrified Young One again, ¡°You¡¯re still going to get it, though.¡±


    Relieved and mentally exhausted, Josefa continued scanning the crowd for trespassers, if only she knew what to look for.


    ***


    ¡°Wider feet, Arturo,¡± Aquiles corrected his brother. The country boy nodded his head and widened his stance. Truthfully, his stance was perfect before, and Aquiles was just frustrated. His brother had reached one hundred eighty-six breaths now, and they were so close to real training. ¡°Wider fe-¡±


    ¡°I think they are quite wide enough, Arm of Us,¡± Socorra chided him. She¡¯d been watching him with more intent than his brother. It didn¡¯t make sense. Aquiles knew what he was doing. By the Father¡¯s name, he could already make lightning at will. This training was ridiculous. How long would they be continuing like this? Weeks? Aquiles thought he might burst before that happened.


    ¡°Two hundred,¡± Arturo entombed, and his voice rang eerily, caught up a bit in the hay along the walls. A preternatural jumble of tones echoed instead of a full spectrum. Aquiles did not enjoy that sound.


    Socorra clapped once and smiled. ¡°Buenisimo, Arturo. Do you feel confident?¡±


    ¡°I believe so.¡±


    ¡°You believe so, or you are?¡±


    ¡°I am confident, Child. I can do it.¡±


    ¡°Great. Juan! Juan! Get over here. Across from your respective twin.¡± The oafs shambled over, too dumb to pay attention on their own, and Other Juan took up position across from Aquiles. ¡°Same thing as yesterday. Aquiles will go first. Arturo, keep breathing and feeling. Let the feelings out when it is your time. Just breath, nin?o.¡±


    Aquiles watched his brother. The fool was tensing again in anticipation of his trial to come. He snorted to himself, then took up his stance.


    ¡°Juan, disperse straight into the ground. Let¡¯s not light this hay on fire and cook ourselves.¡±


    ¡°Si?,¡± he rumbled.


    ¡°Alright, Aquiles. Amp up your reach a tiny bit from yesterday. Make Juan work for it.¡±


    Aquiles nodded. He breathed in, gut, arms, fingertips, and reached out to his target before him. He grunted, and little arcs jumped between his fingers. Pops and sizzles pinged around the chamber. ¡°Relax. Just reach out and touch Juan.¡± Aquiles clenched his jaw, then forced his teeth apart.


    The world around him disappeared, fresh air gushing into his nose. He could almost pick out Other Juan¡¯s heartbeat like a little bit of lightning on its own. Aquiles reached out and grabbed it. Purple and fiery hot, a thick arc leaped up from nonexistence and connected Aquiles outreached hand to Juan¡¯s chest. Rain and wind whipped through Aquiles¡¯ mind. Everyone¡¯s shadows stretched out to the far walls, stark black and solid, the blessing of a Bolt outshining the lights of man.


    The arc lingered there for the briefest of moments, but longer than the instantaneous phenomenon he¡¯d experienced before. Other Juan¡¯s strangled yell knocked Arturo¡¯s grasp from his chest across the twenty-pace distance. The man dispersed directly into the ground as instructed, smiting and charring the stone. Other Juan collapsed, and his brother rushed to his side. Aquiles knew the man lived, or else his brother would be dead by his side.


    Socorra stared in disbelief, ¡°Never. Never have I seen someone show strength like this in their first days.¡± She shook her head. ¡°Aquiles, you must be more careful. You¡¯re lucky Juan still rivals your strength. You would have killed any other Storm in this pyramid with that.¡±


    Aquiles met her gaze, ¡°Even you?¡±


    Socorra¡¯s eyes were suspicious.


    Aquiles snapped out of whatever had grabbed hold of him. ¡°I¡¯m- I¡¯m sorry. I barely reached more than yesterday. I swear.¡± That was true, he had more trouble finding that connection, but he did not pull on it but a fraction harder.


    Socorra kept her concerned gaze on him, ¡°I believe that. Come, Juan. Your brother is fine.¡±


    Other Juan was blinking unconsciousness from his eyes now and rubbing his hands. His fingers looked fresh and red with light burns. Aquiles felt terrible. He¡¯d chided Arturo for not understanding their potential, and here he was nearly killing a friend that only meant well. He had to be more careful.


    ¡°Alright, Arturo,¡± Socorra said, her normal confidence returning. ¡°Just breathe.¡±


    ***


    Josefa couldn¡¯t find anything out of the ordinary in the crowd. She was probably making a big deal out of nothing. Those new twins really had her on edge, and her pain was at its worst today. She had good days, bad days, and outliers. Today was an outlier.


    The main square was clear, stairs clean, Children trumping about as usual with their books and scrolls and an expertise everyone had to know about. Other than the silly situation with that Child and her plant, nothing was out of the ordinary. The Young One had scampered off to tell on himself to Horacio. That old man was infamous, and the Young Ones dreaded seeing him on his bad side. One way to get on it was him hearing about your malfeasance from a Child rather than yourself.


    Step, step, hiss. The adrenaline had left her, and all that running and pushing caught up to her. Josefa could barely close her hands. She fitted straps to her knives that allowed her to hang onto the weapons when her appendages failed her like this. It happened far too often these days. She checked on the blades, a habit, reaching a discreet hand to her sides to feel the stiff metal of the hidden knives. No one would know she was armed. That¡¯s how Josefa liked it. She didn¡¯t need to draw her weapons quickly, she just needed to draw them without notice, and Josefa had more than twenty years of practice. The blades could be planted in a man¡¯s kidneys before she moved, and they sang in want of retribution to Maria¡¯s death. She could wait another few months or years. She¡¯d been waiting half her life.


    Once her breathing calmed down, she began her walk up to the pyramid peak. Her appetite had left, and she wanted some fresh air. Lunch could happen later. Josefa dreaded the climb, but the reward would be worth it. She hoped.


    Josefa took the first step and saw something ahead. The trailing end of a black cloak disappeared beyond the next level¡¯s landing. Young Ones and Children wore brown, always. Servants wore white, always. No one wore black. Josefa leaned out over the stairway railing to see the robe¡¯s wearer appear from the bend. No one showed. Either they were in the hall leading from the landing, or they were ducked below the railing. Hiding.


    She took the quickest steps she could without making noise. It should be enough to catch up to someone creeping up the stairs. She rounded the bend, and a bent over figure in a long black cloak froze mid-step. It turned, slow and deliberate, and drew up to its full height. A man¡¯s face was shadowed under a deep black hood. It was wrong. Grey and lifeless, like a fake face, or mask.


    Josefa had found a suspect after all.


    The man gritted his teeth and whipped around, cloak billowing behind him. He sprinted up the stairs now with reckless abandon. He''d already been spotted. Josefa sprinted after with her knives drawn, crying to herself with the pain of each slam of her foot to stone.


    ***


    Arturo grunted. He strained and felt he was pushing with all his might. Nothing happened.


    ¡°Nin?o, you are tightening your stomach. That draws your energy in. Relax.¡±


    He stopped straining and bent over, gasping for air. ¡°I swear I had it doing the forms earlier.¡± He dragged in another breath and continued, ¡°Breathe, gut and into fingertips¡­¡± Arturo had an idea. ¡°I was doing forms with my hands out in different stances, but I¡¯m trying to make a shockwave while plugging my ears. Can¡¯t push through my fingertips into myself.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s really more of an expression. You can push from anywhere.¡±


    ¡°Well, I can¡¯t figure it out. Can I try with my hands out?¡± Behind him, Aquiles was sighing his discontent. Arturo rounded on him, ¡°Callete?! I¡¯m figuring it out. It''s been one day!¡±


    His brother raised his hands like he hadn¡¯t expected any reprisal. Arturo rolled his eyes. Socorra gestured to Arturo, ¡°Go ahead, nin?o. If you¡¯re successful, it will be loud.¡± Bolt Juan had been standing with his fingers in his ears for the better part of a half hour. He wasn¡¯t even paying attention anymore, turning in circles where he stood. But the self-absorbed Arm of Us didn¡¯t seem to believe Arturo would be successful. He stood ten paces away with his arms crossed and a smug expression on his face. Arturo was tired of that.


    He breathed in, felt a buildup of that energy in his stomach, roiling and ready to burst, pushed that energy up his arms, passing through his elbows, into his hands, and all the way down to his fingertips. He sent his fingertips forward in his mind, trying to knock Juan over.


    Several walls of white air exploded from his fingers and hurled themselves at Juan. The Thunderhead stuck his hands into the assault and the shockwaves split about him. The waves ricocheted off the wall and bounced randomly across the room before dissipating. Arturo¡¯s ears rang like he expected, unable to hear the Juans¡¯ and Socorra¡¯s praise. His fingers felt a slight tingle of heat, how odd.


    Aquiles just stood silently, but the smugness was gone. Maybe he was finally realizing this was real as well. Hay began drifting down after being blown into the air. The walls of sound and force were only a few paces across when they reached Juan, but the skilled man had stuck his own small set of shockwaves just before his hands and split the assault. He¡¯d still been pushed back several feet, heels catching on stray straws of hay.


    After a worrying several moments without hearing, he heard Socorra say, ¡°We should update the Father on our progress. He could factor that into his timelines.¡±


    She walked into the center of the chamber. Aquiles walked over to Arturo and gave him one curt nod, ¡°Bien. Finalmente.¡± Arturo rolled his eyes.


    Socorra spoke, ¡°Father.¡±


    ***


    Josefa¡¯s legs shouted in her bones, her lungs were on fire, and her clothes were a hot comal to the skin. She was crying out loud now but closing the distance on her stranger. He lumbered up the stairs, too big for his own good. Her legs pumped in perfect coordination, they just hated doing it.


    Her pain would not stop her here. They had made it nearly to the pyramid¡¯s peak. The stranger showed no sign of slowing. Through strained muscles, Josefa screamed, ¡°Stop! Or I! Will kill! You!¡±


    The man seemed to gather remaining strength and stamina and charged ahead, opening the distance Josefa had closed on him.


    She was going to make this man hurt for having her chase him like this.


    The man turned the last corner, and his feet slid under him. He bashed into the wall before the exit to the garden. Josefa reached it and kept her footing. ¡°Ay cabro?n!¡±


    He didn¡¯t slow or weave through the path. The cloak caught on branches and thorns as the man barreled straight through the vegetation of the garden. She imagined Child Emilia would not find that very pleasurable.


    A great leap took him over the sundial and into the open space before the railing over the garden. His jump was high, too high. Josefa hadn¡¯t seen any man or woman jump like that before.


    ¡°WHO ARE YOU?!¡± She tore her throat raw screaming.


    He slid to a stop just before the railing. A great gray hand thrust into the air, fingers spread and corded forearm muscle standing out. The wind whipped his cloak, exposing more gray skin. His hood blew back to show a completely bald, gray head.


    ¡°Stop what you¡¯re doing!¡±


    His fingers began jumping with little arcs of lightning.


    ¡°Pinche-¡±


    Josefa threw herself behind the sundial. He shot dozens of dancing streaks of lightning into the air, not at her, but towards the sky.


    The bolts reached hundreds of feet above the pyramid. People from across the city would be able to see that. An aroma of fresh grass and hard rainfall washed over Josefa, and the air sizzled and popped with energy. It outshone the sun at midday, irregular shadows bouncing on the ground, the sundial indecisive on the time of day in the blue and purple light.


    The man held it for a few moments longer and then closed his hand. His skin smoked and turned black.


    Josefa stood back, and with less confidence, called out, ¡°Stop! I¡¯ll bring you down!¡±


    The man looked back and smiled a gray smile, ¡°Adios, hermana.¡±


    He squatted and jumped, shooting out over the railing of the pyramid. Josefa reached to her boot and flung a throwing knife towards him. It caught him on his fall back down, thudding into his shoulder. He had no reaction.


    Josefa rushed forward to look over the edge. Halfway down the pyramids slant, he collided with the stone and rode it down on bent legs. When he stopped at the bottom, she watched him reach around and pull something from his back: the knife. He looked back up.


    Then, he turned and faced down El Derecho.


    Josefa followed his turn with her eyes. Right between the Ministry and Monastery, a huge mass of guards bristled with weapons on the move. Their general now knew the Monastery was not ready, and he¡¯d just given his signal to attack.


    The Ministry was marching on the Monastery.


    ***


    The Father swept forth from an abyss in the air.


    ¡°My child.¡± His mask blinked to a smiling face. The storm wreathing his shoulders in cloud and lightning, raged in the air. Water poured from him.


    Something was wrong, the god¡¯s energy was off, so Socorra asked, ¡°Is everything alright, Father?¡±


    His mask blinked to a questioning look. ¡°Soon it will be, Socorra. Soon it will be.¡±


    Socorra agreed, ¡°Yes, Father. The twins are learning quickly.¡±


    ¡°Si?, si?. I know. I have seen.¡± His mask blinked to a frown. ¡°I am truly hurt to inform you that their training can no longer be continued. Thank you for bringing them together here for me, Socorra. You did the right thing.¡±


    Socorra listened to him speak. Her heart beat with terror, ¡°What are you talking about, Father?¡±


    His mask blinked back to the smile, ¡°I hope you can find your love for me again, Socorra.¡± He paused and turned his head to the twins, Arturo and Aquiles. ¡°But demons may not be allowed to live.¡± He turned his head back to Socorra. ¡°I am sorry you wasted so much of your life.¡±


    The Father turned, and the abyss swallowed him. Socorra fell to her knees, silent, too dumb struck to react or think. ¡°Demons¡­ not demons¡­¡±


    Arturo whispered behind her, ¡°What happened¡­¡±


    Socorra didn¡¯t respond and stumbled to the ladder in a daze and began to climb. The hatch was thrown open.


    Josefa stared down at her, face covered in sweat and chest heaving, but she spoke clearly and steadily, ¡°The Monastery is under attack.¡±


    Socorra turned back to the Greatstorm, to her triumph, to her greatest loss, and she tasted vomit in her throat and her brain buzzed with pumping blood, but an alarm sounded in her ears, her training and experience clearing her mind. She eyed Arturo and Aquiles as they stared up at Josefa in horror.


    ¡°The Father betrayed us.¡±

 Chapter 21

    Chapter 21


    Aquiles¡¯ mind was without thought or emotion. He¡¯d heard the most absurd words he¡¯d ever heard out of someone¡¯s mouth, then just went blank. His brother pulled Aquiles back to reality and his focus back to the chamber round them.


    ¡°Come on, hermano! We are leaving!¡± Arturo pulled on his arms and slapped him on the face. That did the trick.


    ¡°What do you mean betrayed, Socorra?¡± he contested.


    ¡°We need to get you two out of here right now.¡±


    ¡°That legion is ten minutes away at most,¡± Josefa added to the commotion from up the hatch.


    ¡°Alright, we¡¯ll pack bags of supplies in the mess and come right back here,¡± Socorra responded, and as if thinking to herself, ¡°That¡¯s enough time, right?¡±


    Arturo chimed in, ¡°We can easily make that, let''s go!¡±


    ¡°STOP!¡±


    Lightning burst from Aquiles and connected to the ground ceiling and walls around him. It blinked, a white-blue, and scorched the hay. Juan protected his brother and Socorra raised her own hands to dissipate the bolts. They passed right around Arturo. ¡°What do you mean betrayed? We¡¯re here barely three days and already the Ministry has sent a contingency of guards. This is insane.¡±


    ¡°I told you, the Father betrayed us. Something isn¡¯t right. We-¡±


    ¡°The Father betrayed us? Or you betrayed him? You¡¯re right, Child. We,¡± he pointed between himself and Arturo, ¡°aren¡¯t right. We¡¯re demons after all. You heard him.¡±


    ¡°The Ministry will kill you, and everyone here, for harboring you. Whether they knew or not, the Ministry will kill them.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe you.¡±


    The Juans, Josefa, his brother, and Socorra stared back at him, their fears plain on their faces.


    ¡°Then this has all been for nothing,¡± Socorra looked from Aquiles to Arturo to the Juans and up the ladder at Josefa. ¡°We lost.¡±


    ¡°...I believe you¡­¡± Arturo whispered, terror spasming in his legs and his hands jerking to grab at the ladder rungs. ¡°I can¡¯t die. I have someone to see.¡±


    The last of Aquiles¡¯ guilt choked him, ¡°We must die.¡±


    Arturo¡¯s eyes began to water, and Aquiles scoffed as he forced his own tears back.


    ¡°I¡¯m turning myself in,¡± he said, then pushed past them all to climb the ladder.


    ***


    Arturo couldn¡¯t control his breathing. He panicked, not for his death, but for how he¡¯d said goodbye to Valeria. He couldn¡¯t stand it. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks, and he gasped to fill his lungs to no avail. He worried dying would hurt. A life of agony, and he worried the end would be as painful still. Socorra said a Thunderhead¡¯s torture at the hand of their sibling¡¯s death should be avoided at all cost, choose any other death. Arturo was scared. Why did this have to be happening? Arturo wanted a normal life. Not this. And now, the Ministry wanted to take- and Aquiles¡­


    Aquiles was going to let them.


    He shouted something primal. He flew up the ladder after Aquiles, and his legs shook, and the ladder shook, and his hands pulsed with bursts of air, and his body was going to explode.


    ¡°NO!¡±


    Arturo clawed into his brother¡¯s shoulder and yanked the bastard around.


    And finally, surprise. Not smugness, not a scowl, not indifference, but genuine surprise lit on that familiar face.


    He slammed his knuckles into Aquiles¡¯ jaw. A meaty crack resounded at the base of the Parents¡¯ statue, and his snapped back, drops of blood flung against the wooden ground. The back of Aquiles¡¯ head smacked into the wooden floor with a thunk. He stared up, eyes glassed over.


    Arturo stood over him and bent down, gripping the boy¡¯s robes in white fists and holding him off the ground. His mind was a calm, grass meadow swept to nothing by a howling wind. A firestorm tore through the land now.


    ¡°You don¡¯t get to decide when I die!¡±


    There wasn¡¯t understanding there in Aquiles¡¯ eyes. He closed them and his head lolled.


    Josefa watched on, stunned. She shook herself, smiled, and gave him a little clap on the back. Arturo called down the ladder, ¡°Juan! Carry Aquiles to the mess! We are getting our supplies then leaving.¡± They were running out of time. He rubbed his knuckles. The big twins came up, one after the other, followed by a scared looking Socorra. That was more unnerving than even the Father betraying them. Socorra experienced fear, and gods lied.


    Bolt Juan scooped Aquiles¡¯ limp body up and threw it over his shoulder. They all rounded the Parents¡¯ statue, but something was off. The great hall smelled like burning wood and rain. Always rain. Arturo¡¯s stomach dropped. He spun, expecting Aquiles to blast the lot of them, but it wasn¡¯t him.


    Wood scraped under his feet. Arturo turned back around and looked at the entrance to the Great Hall from the city, to where he¡¯d spotted his brother for the first time. There wasn¡¯t some squadron of Storms, or a group of Bolts, but one huge man with a gray face, the Stranger from town, preceded by three bloody and beaten prisoners, chained with drooped heads.


    The Stranger yanked at the chains around their necks, and their heads raised in unison. Antonio watched him through black and swollen eyes, Miguel stared off into space with blood dripping down his cheeks from cuts on his head and face, and Barto grimaced with a broken smile. Arturo¡¯s gut twisted. His tears returned.


    ¡°What do you want?¡± he called to the Stranger.


    ¡°Do you know these men,¡± Josefa questioned him.


    ¡°They¡¯re damn near family,¡± he turned back to the stranger and yelled across the hall, ¡°Let them go!¡±


    The Stranger just watched on.


    ¡°I know that old man,¡± Socorra gasped, voice strangled with horror, ¡°he came looking for you.¡± She shook her head back and forth in disbelief, ¡°I should have never turned him away. I¡¯m so sorry.¡±


    Barto choked a laugh out and said, ¡°Hola, nin?a. It''s good to see you again.¡± The Stranger yanked on his chain, and he collapsed to his knees.


    ¡°Enough,¡± the gray man¡¯s voice cut the air, ¡°come quietly and I will let these men go, free to return to whatever place they came from.¡±


    ¡°Let them go, and I won¡¯t kill you! I¡¯m a Thunderhead of a Greatstorm!¡±


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    The man laughed, a wagon axle grinding in its place, ¡°The Father has told me all about your ¡®abilities¡¯, Arturo.¡± His laugh cut off, his hands were enfouldered, sparking and crackling with the blessing of a Bolt.


    ¡°Come freely. And they live.¡± The Stranger swept a hand popping with arcs, some connecting to the walls and ceiling, ¡°And, as a gesture, I won¡¯t burn this accursed place to the ground.¡±


    Socorra seemed to have found her strength again, ¡°How dare you? We are the Monastery of the Parents!¡±


    The Stranger snickered, ¡°Yes indeed. Well, you can plainly see the Parents¡¯ opinion of you.¡±


    Arturo¡¯s mind was blank, gripped by the sights of his friends chained and hurt. Voices carried on outside of him.


    ¡°You cannot harm anyone in their name, they would never stand it.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s to say they stand still?¡±


    Socorra blazed to light on her own, shoulders wrapped in thick bands of light, jumping up to her head and down her arms. ¡°Heresy!¡±


    Her strength emboldened him. Arturo felt more confident now, he breathed in and felt the energy in his fingertips. He pushed out two shockwaves to the floor, a display of his strength. ¡°Let them go!¡±


    The Stranger scowled at them, ¡°I said come freely.¡±


    Like a snake striking, he shot his huge hand toward Barto¡¯s head. The lightning wrapped around the Stranger¡¯s grip, thick as Arturo¡¯s wrist, and Barto seized. The Stranger¡¯s fingers pressed into Barto¡¯s skull. His skin blackened and the smell of meat cooking dominated the rain. Barto¡¯s hair caught fire, and his eyes melted, thick tears to paint his cheeks. He didn¡¯t scream, he couldn¡¯t.


    The Stranger twisted his grip and ripped Barto¡¯s head free.


    He reared back and threw it at them. It splattered against the stone of the Parents¡¯ statue. Barto¡¯s lifeless body slumped against the ground, smoking at the stump on his neck.


    The world stopped.


    Two separate bolts connected the Stranger to Socorra and Juan. He worked to dissipate the attacks.


    The world was silent.


    Juan¡¯s face twisted, his lightning as thick as his own arms, purple and dancing with energy. Socorra looked calm. The Stranger struggled with them both, but clearly not with all his effort. With two quick motions, he redirected the lightning into Miguel then Antonio. They didn¡¯t seize. They exploded forward, ruined and still.


    Some whine grew in Arturo¡¯s ears and his vision went red. The energy grew over his entire body, a blood-curdling scream, a blast of white expanded from his mouth. A rush of wind sucked the air from his lungs.


    The whine stopped, and he PUSHED.


    The great hall disappeared before him. The lightning was gone.


    Had the world gone?


    He looked about, debris about him. The big twins laying on their backs.


    Socorra was sat with her legs out front. Her face was pure terror.


    Cries from the market were the first thing to crawl back into Arturo¡¯s ears. The sloped wall at the opposite end of the great hall was empty space. The hall was empty of pews, and the walls were empty of torches. His ears rang. He watched rubble rain down on the far mountainside.


    Rectangles of stone, some taller than two men and twice that in length, bounced off the natural formations hundreds of paces away, flattening trees, splintering outcroppings. They completely cleared the market outside the church, and left an open, clean wound into the Monastery. His whole body felt hot like a fire.


    People outside screamed.


    He looked back at the gore on the statue. All that was left of Barto. His body and those of Miguel and Antonio disappeared on the white wave of Arturo¡¯s entire life of pain. He felt nothing. Just emptiness. He looked down to the floor where Aquiles was looking at him like the demons out of their children¡¯s stories.


    ¡°Did you see him, Aquiles?¡± Arturo couldn¡¯t hear his own voice. He could be shouting. He put his fury into the next words, ¡°Do you believe her now?¡±


    Aquiles nodded, watching Arturo with awe. Arturo¡¯s hearing slowly returned as they ran down the hallway towards the mess. His brother ran next to him looking at nothing, his breath steady with his strides. Behind him, Socorra spoke with wonder, ¡°All the stories of the power of a Greatstorm. They¡¯re true. You¡¯re proof.¡±


    But his friends were torn to pieces like nothing. And he felt fragile.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care.¡±


    He hoped the Stranger was dead, smitten to pieces on the mountainside. But if the beast lived, it would come to fear Arturo. For he would kill it, it who ended his friends, slowly and with all the savor of a delicious meal.


    He didn¡¯t care. But he did relish it.


    ***


    Josefa trotted alongside Arturo. She watched him wearily, waiting for him to have another outburst and kill them all. She wished Socorra had told her about this plot to bring the Greatstorm together sooner. Maybe she could have advised the desperate old woman against it. Josefa looked back at the Child. Socorra wouldn¡¯t meet her gaze, staring at her pumping legs to keep up with the younger pack.


    Gaze back on Arturo. His skin gleamed with sweat, and his arteries stood out from his long neck as he ran. It would be so easy to end it all right here. Her fingers tickled the hilt of her knives. She could run the edge along that little rounded part there and stop this fight before it began. Yet, she couldn¡¯t trust the Ministry. That poor man¡¯s horrible death had cemented that truth.


    The Thunderhead¡¯s run looked so normal. Harmless, mild. But that shockwave picked up everything in its path and exploded a wall, three feet of stone and twenty feet high, several hundred paces out into the countryside. That immense power contained in this simple man next to her. Josefa shivered.


    The guards would get here in no less than five minutes by now. She estimated three hundred men and women to be in that pack. There were probably a dozen Storms following them as well. She¡¯d relayed her estimations to her party. They all just nodded, speechless now. Just heavy breathing and wheezing from their exertions.


    Aquiles ran just behind her. She glanced back to see his pallid expression, numb with shock at what was transpiring and that beast of a punch his brother threw at him. She worried what he was capable of now that she¡¯d seen a Greatstorm truly use its blessings. Josefa and her sister were so regular. Their use of the blessings would pale in comparison to what these brothers were capable of. She kept on shivering.


    They arrived at the mess. People were running around the main square, trying to figure out what caused that massive blast that made the entire pyramid rumble. Socorra seemed to have gotten through her thoughts and began giving out orders. ¡°Juan and Juan, grab supplies. Cheese, rice, whatever. And the vials! Arturo, Aquiles! Keep your damned heads down. We need the monks to fight for us. Help those two for the Parents¡¯ sake!¡±


    Josefa watched on and waited for her orders. Socorra just stood there waiting for the two Storms to come back with the supplies but passed on all the apologies she¡¯d ever need to for Maria. Josefa would follow this woman to the horizon and to the moon. She wrapped her hands in wool for what was to come and stared into her mentor¡¯s eyes, her friend¡¯s eyes. ¡°Te quiero, Socorra.¡±


    The other woman choked on a sob and nodded her head. The Storms returned ladened with foodstuffs. Socorra jumped back into action.


    ¡°Juan and Juan! Take them back to the chamber and out the passage to the stables. There should be mounts there. Arturo and Aquiles, ride out of the city. Keep an eye on the road for five days. If none of us come, hide and rebuild your strength.¡±


    Those four ran off, the Greatstorm lowering their heads in the chaos. Many Children were entering the mess now, calling out questions for Socorra to ignore. The wizened woman looked to Josefa. ¡°Keep to the shadows. If guards truly do enter this pyramid, pick them off quietly. Scare them.¡±


    Josefa smiled. A chance at revenge at last.


    Socorra lowered her head and whispered, ¡°And as for me¡­¡±


    She turned, and the old woman seemed to grow to a new height.


    ¡°Children of the Monastery!¡± The crowd went silent. Young Ones and Children crowded around the Arm to hear her words.


    ¡°The Ministry is marching on us as we speak. That blast was their first attack!¡±


    Josefa let the lie roll off. A gasp ran through the crowd. A man cried out, ¡°How is this possible? We only just learned of their treachery! You said months!¡±


    Josefa watched Socorra, wondering what she would say. The woman took a moment to think and spoke with conviction, ¡°The Ministry has strayed from the guidance of the Parents, as you know. The Father pleaded with us for help, and the Ministry is striking first to solidify their hold on our land!¡±


    The crowd was silent again. Fear and worry were palpable on the air.


    ¡°We must prepare ourselves to fight for our survival! There are a few hundred guards and dozens of Storms on the way.¡±


    The fear grew into crying and anxious moans.


    ¡°Will you fight with me against the heretics threatening our home?¡±


    Silence. Josefa was stricken with doubt. These people had never known real violence, this attack was not a possible reality to them.


    The ground began to rumble like thunder in the distance. The Arm of the Monastery smiled.


    ¡°Do you hear them?¡± Malice now streaked Socorra¡¯s voice, a rasp from deep in her throat.


    That storm grew closer.


    ¡°Do you hear them coming to break us? US? The Parents¡¯ Children?! HERE WE STAND!¡±


    A dark-skinned man with protruding eyebrows and deep wrinkles stepped forward from the crowd. Child Horacio placed a hand on Socorra¡¯s shoulder, ¡°We hear them.¡±


    He turned to the crowd and shouted, ¡°WE HEAR THEM!¡±


    The crowd roared in response, adrenaline replacing the fear and worry with resolve. The few Children allowed to carry swords unsheathed them now and held them above their heads. Horacio unsheathed his own, ringing metal breached over the cacophony.


    Socorra raised her hands, ¡°I know our time to train was cut before having started, but Children! Come! Come fight with me!¡±


    ¡°YES, CHILD!¡± A single voice


    ¡°Come fight with me! BREAK US?! Let these bastards break their steel on something HARDER!¡±


    Goosebumps rose on Josefa¡¯s burning flesh.


    Another roar echoed around the hall.

 Chapter 22

    Chapter 22


    Cheek and eyes throbbing from the hit earlier but Aquiles didn¡¯t know what to feel. His body seemed to settle on nothing, and his emotions felt numb. The look his brother¡¯s face held told he probably felt the same. The way his friends died¡­ Aquiles shook himself out of it.


    Ahead, the thunder of boots grew louder.


    Behind, Socorra¡¯s speech ended in a silence endowed with strength.


    Aquiles glanced to get a last look of the main square and those in it, like a bird screeching over a kill in a field, the tunnel outside the mess was being pushed open. Horacio directed some of the brawnier weapons masters to push it back shut. The Storms ran. Socorra¡¯s voice carried over the crowd of monks shouting one thing over and over, ¡°Thunderhead in front, Bolt in back! Protect him from incoming projectiles!¡± Was it for them? Or the battle lines forming there?


    Juan moved in front of Arturo, and Other Juan moved behind Aquiles. He watched beads of sweat run down the back of Arturo¡¯s neck.


    They barreled down the hallway, feet smacking the stone in a counter rhythm to the incoming soldiers. Adrenaline was beginning to pump through Aquiles body. He knew the feeling. It felt like the moments before an intense sparring session, swords drawn and sharp, and his ears heard every scrape of foot on stone, every huff of breath, every splash of a drop of sweat reaching the ground.


    The boots grew louder.


    Juan burst into the wooden chamber and took the stairs to the Great Hall three at a time. They all followed him as he veered around to the right behind the statues to go for the hatch. Aquiles glanced at the gaping hole produced by his brother in the pyramid, destruction incarnate and the mountainside was ruin.


    The boots grew louder.


    The oaf fumbled on the hatch in his haste and grunted. He reeled his hand back and punched the hatch in with a blast of thunder. Aquiles watched Arturo feel at his head like he¡¯d forgotten something. ¡°My hat,¡± he turned and looked at Aquiles, wide-eyed and worried, ¡°I forgot my hat.¡±


    ¡°It''s too late now.¡±


    Arturo looked longingly back down the hallway before nodding and turning towards the hole in the wood.


    The boots stopped.


    They all spun to look at the huge opening Arturo blasted out of the stone. Hundreds of men stood armed with long spears, swords, and maces. They all wore the same cured leather armor with metal gauntlets and black boots. Men, women, and children outside the walls ran screaming in every direction.


    The Juans and Arturo were too shocked to react, but Aquiles had his head on straight. He looked within himself and found the energy in his gut, dipped into it, hoisting out balefuls and drew it through his body to his fingers. He reached for every pair of heretic eyes that watched him now, and he reached for their hearts. Aquiles would take them all.


    The energy jumped from his fingers, popping into existence, and connecting Aquiles and the foremost man. The man stiffened and began to fall. He hit the floor, scorched and his armor aflame. While effective, that wasn¡¯t the comprehensive feat Aquiles hoped for. The company of men looked at their falling brother, then back at Aquiles and his party, back to their brother, then charged into the room with a roar.


    ***


    Josefa gripped her knives and waited in the service tunnel near the mess hall after Horacio had so kindly ordered it closed behind her. It was not effort to hide in here, the darkness did all the work for her. The attackers¡¯ general likely ordered two attack vectors: a main one down the Great Hall and a second down this tunnel. Josefa knew he was aware of it and was certain to order the second contingent down this tunnel. That was good for Josefa. She could keep to the dark, and they would be trapped fighting, dying, in a line. Her heart fluttered with anticipation. She could pick off several of the front men and scare the rest into submission, pick off as many as she wanted before sealing them in like a great tomb with arrow-fire.


    Josefa smiled when her hunch was rewarded with the sound of hushed whispers and shuffling feet. They carried no torches. Didn''t want to draw attention to themselves. It didn¡¯t matter now. They were dead fools playing soldiers.


    She pinned herself into a narrow groove in the wall and let the first few pass. Their breath touched her cheek, and vengeance replaced her pain, filled her, bones and all. She hadn¡¯t been able to strike back at the Ministry since her sister¡¯s death. Not until now.


    Josefa picked her target and leaned forward. She drove her left knife into the guard¡¯s unarmored kidney and yanked him towards her. Stab a man in the kidney and he wouldn¡¯t be able to scream.


    With the other knife, she severed his jugular, a deep cut from left to right, opening a red smile, his skin tugging at her knife¡¯s edge like flirty pecks from a new love. Wet, hot vindication flowed over Josefa¡¯s hands, and she took in the sweet aroma of a metallic job well done.


    The other guards hadn¡¯t noticed their brother¡¯s silent takedown until the next guy tripped into his limp feet. ¡°Que pin-¡±


    Josefa¡¯s knife rammed the guard¡¯s mouth shut, blade under his chin, through his tongue, and into his brain. His teeth cracked under the pressure.


    ¡°Shhhh,¡± she kissed him on the cheek and pulled the knife free and cackled a maniac laugh for effect. Didn¡¯t have to fake it.


    Swung swords and spears entered the dark space she left, so she slipped into another crack and let the soldiers scramble in the dark.


    ¡°Someone¡¯s in here!¡±


    ¡°Get him!¡±


    One just gurgled a wet scream. It seemed a guard had taken down one of his own men by mistake.


    She slipped out with weight and momentum, and her thrust took a woman in the eye. The long blade drove from the back of the dead woman¡¯s head enough to gouge out the cheek of the guard behind. He dropped his spear and threw up a hand to the flayed flesh over his teeth.


    Josefa caught the spear on the way down and put the butt to the stone floor like she was hunting boar. She slipped under and yanked the guard onto it by his shoulders. The next one ran onto it of his own accord.


    Into the next nook and on. Guards shouted and bled and died. Her hands were already sticky. Wreathed in darkness, Josefa set about a methodical butchery of the group of terrified men. She would make a river of blood flow from this tunnel.


    ***


    A Brother strode down the mountainside, his mending bones the only restraint on his fury. The Father said the demons had not discovered their power. He had been wrong. A Brother had never seen such a display of raw strength. A Brother was eager to capture the demons and make them suffer.


    A Brother approached the gaping wound in the Outreach and looked up and down the broken stone in the hole. Such ferocity. A Brother would gain much favor in bringing the demons down. The guards were beginning to rush the entrance against A Brother¡¯s orders. ¡°Halt!¡± A Brother called out, and the force halted. A Brother¡¯s orders would always be respected.


    One of the sergeants rushed forward, ¡°The demons disappeared into an underground chamber. We have sent men to intercept them.¡±


    ¡°Good. I will follow them up myself.¡± A Brother¡¯s communication was improper with these soldiers, true words alienated them.


    ¡°Bolts.¡± Ten men, adorned in burnished plate, burnt with arcs, reinforced against lightning strikes, turned to face A Brother. ¡°Push down the hallway into the center of the pyramid first with the Bolt-arms and fire into whatever defensive force meets you.¡±


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    They eyed each other with fearful expressions. Their Thunderheads cast their heads down. Pathetic.


    A Brother responded and tried to encourage the cowards, ¡°You fight for the Parents. This is the best strategy to take the pyramid. Move.¡± The Bolts left down the hallway, Bolt-arms at the ready.


    ***


    Socorra set about ordering different groups into position. She sent the Young Ones up to the academic wings on the higher floors in the Monastery to protect them from the fighting. Horacio was forming a line at the hallway connecting to the Great Hall. A few dozen Children, experts in their chosen weapons, swords and spears and metal-studded staff, took their positions under his orders, swordsmen in front and spears behind in the gaps. The Storms were arriving to bolster the defenses. Thunderheads stood interspersed in the armed group of Children to block arrows and other projectiles. Archers stood next to each Thunderhead to return fire.


    She hoped the Ministry Storms would only bring with them their blessings. A hail of Bolt-arm fire would tear the Children apart. Thunderheads would have a very hard time with those high-speed projectiles. They¡¯d have to attack first and prevent the fire, and that was too much a gamble. Socorra bit her nails.


    Josefa had slipped into the service tunnel to thwart any enemy advance there. Socorra thought she heard shouts through the stone. That was absurd. It was far too thick. She sent a smaller group of Children to protect the tunnel¡¯s exit in case Josefa had to retreat. There was no telling how many men would try to push through there. Shouts and orders were flung about her in the command center Socorra had set in the mess hall. Horacio returned to update her.


    ¡°We¡¯re set and ready. The Young Ones are far up the pyramid.¡±


    ¡°Good, settle in and get ready to fight.¡±


    Horacio nodded, his face a sculpture of confidence and calm. It made Socorra feel better. ¡°Masters are taking position with the Bolts in the center of the square.¡±


    Her turn to nod, ¡°Good, let¡¯s-¡±


    A roar of boots echoed through the halls of the pyramid. The Ministry had arrived.


    ***


    Hernan marched down the hallway with a Bolt-arm strapped to his shoulder. His sister, Paola, marched behind him. This was so unnatural. Thunderheads were meant to protect their Bolts. A Bolt¡¯s death ensured the death of their sibling, so it only made sense for the Thunderhead to precede the Bolt in engagements. Bolts couldn¡¯t stop arrows or swords. That gray freak didn¡¯t care if they lived or died.


    He sniffled and his head swam, and his heart felt like stopping as he rounded the corner and was met face to face with a wall of swords and angry faces. The Ministry ordered a massacre of these people, and it made him sick.


    What choice did he have?


    He placed his fingers to the rails of the Bolt-arm and sent his energy through them. The weapon zipped, and one of the swordsmen in front had his sword ripped free of its owner. Blood spurted in an arc, splashing the adjacent defenders. Voices from both sides raised as he tried to reload from the pouch of metal armatures and pellets at his waist.


    Paola knocked a few arrows meant for him off course with light blasts of air. Hernan was in a daze. He¡¯d never shot someone before. And all that blood¡­


    Many other metallic rings echoed around him, projectiles plunging into the defenders¡¯ soft bodies.


    He missed the reload and the pellets emptied onto the ground, bouncing away like so many scattered beads. Arrows zipped by. All he could hear was his heart pounding in his ears. Screams touched his ears from a far, far away place.


    A figure thudded to the ground next him, burnt Bolt armor spilling blood. A figure next to it writhed on the ground, arms and legs bending the wrong way. The Thunderhead¡¯s strangled screams stopped as its neck twisted and snapped. That sound flung Hernan into a world of loud confusion and chaos. The monks managed to down a Ministry-trained storm? He vomited on the ground, bile stinging his throat and nose.


    ¡°Get up, brother! Fire! Fire!¡± Paola desperately flung arrows away in the too-narrow hallway. Hernan looked up at the defenders to see many lying in pools of blood, torn apart by Bolt-arm fire. He felt dizzy.


    Something slapped him in the neck. Paola was hitting him now? He took a breath to speak, but some liquid flooded his lungs. He coughed and looked at the feathers attached to an arrow shaft in his throat. He couldn¡¯t feel it. He couldn¡¯t breathe. Hernan was on the ground watching Paola split small shockwaves thrown from the defenders.


    When had he fallen?


    The torched dimmed, and Hernan watched Paola spasm and fall next to him. The blood in his mouth got into his nose and-


    ***


    Horacio¡¯s face slipped from its controlled mask to uncontrollable horror. The young Thunderhead Emiliano protected him from the Bolt-arms, casting shockwaves up at regular intervals. He twisted in a graceful rhythm to avoid using the same region of his body. Horacio always overheard Socorra tell Thunderheads to use their whole body to avoid burns.


    Torsos twisted and jerked, limbs freed from their bodily confines, blood flowing without stop from holes and rips in the body of the men and women he had told to stand there and be ready.


    Emiliano twisted in his circles like a dancer moving to a slow rhythm. The sudden onslaught of Bolt-arms was a vile strategy. The ranks seemed to explode, moving slower than real life should allow, projectiles whizzing by, Children sent into the air by shockwaves.


    It had been only seconds, yet it had lasted an eternity. Socorra was running forward now and shouting at the Bolts on the back ranks. Dozens of strikes of lightning illuminated the main square, irradiating them in sharp blue light. Shadows dispersed with light from every direction, and the hair on Horacio¡¯s neck stood up.


    The Ministry Bolts had nowhere to maneuver, almost no way to defend choked into the hallway, no way to see the counter-attack, failing to kill the most deadly defense available to the Monastery. And their siblings could only die.


    Lightning struck the Ministry Storms as a wild boar protects its young, reckless, heedless, vicious, licking their skin and jumping from target to target.


    Hair singed, armor discolored, leather burned, and skin cooked; but their screams were the worst part. The average Bolt would find it difficult to outright kill a man, but the sustained attacks were enough to heat the metal armor pieces and sear flesh.


    Men and women died, choking on their boiling insides. The carnage before him was more haunting than he thought he was possible. These people were in pieces, bodies never meant to withstand the power a Storm wrought. Why would the Parents give men these blessings?


    ***


    Socorra slapped Horacio, putting a little jolt of lightning to his face to wake the man from his trance. He came to with a yelp.


    ¡°We can do this,¡± she assured him, she assured herself. ¡°We can do this. The Bolt-arms are down. I hate that I didn''t prepare for that.¡±


    Horacio stared at her and finally responded, ¡°Time for the blade.¡±


    Socorra looked around at the bloodshed. Half their number, gone. A hundred at least.


    Pools of blood saturated the stone and ran in between the seams, marking the ground in geometric red lines and right angles.


    Socorra felt sick. This was a massacre. What had they trained for their entire lives? She snorted, a disgusting amusement. They trained for exercise, for something to do, something to show off. It was never meant for this.


    Yet, as the Ministry Storms fell and approaching soldiers appeared at the hallway before them, the remaining Children stood tall. The monks of the Monastery. The Children of the Parents.


    Horacio drew his sword.


    ***


    The stench of manure creeped into Arturo¡¯s nose as he ran down the hallway. Aquiles gagged behind him. Juan in front of him ran silently, and the Juan behind huffed with each step.


    Some men had chased them into the chamber. The big brothers had left them mangled and mutilated, body parts slammed so hard into the chamber walls they were stuck there. The vivid image of a man''s jaw torn clean off by the edge of a shockwave stood out in Arturo¡¯s mind.


    They hadn¡¯t lasted a second. Several men¡¯s entire lives ended so abruptly. What was the point? Years growing as boys with loving parents, learning traditions and fighting each other, finding jobs to put food on the table, enjoying the laughter of their wives and children, and getting their skull caved in for a hopeless chase.


    ¡°Mierda!¡± Arturo realized he was crying. He realized he hated these men for throwing their lives at them. They should know it was hopeless. He would show them.


    The tunnel opened into light.


    A dozen armored guards waited for them in the stable. Simple men just covering a potential exit. They had no idea what awaited them.


    Juan ducked a frantic spear thrust. Arturo skidded to a halt before impaling himself on that thrust. The soldier spun and the back half of a spear shaft filled Arturo¡¯s vision.


    ***


    Aquiles watched his brother drop with the sack of rice on his back. A bloody wound marked his crooked nose. He reached for the man in front of him, a physical reach. He grasped hold of the soldier and spun him to stare into his eyes. ¡°Surrender, or we¡¯ll kill all of you.¡± The soldier tried to bring the spear into Aquiles¡¯ side.


    He watched the man die with the energy he sent coursing through his body. He looked into the man¡¯s mouth, smelled his breath, tobacco and tequila. Lightning poured off Aquiles'' body and jumped to the rest of the men in the stable.


    They all died, strangled with seizing muscles and blackening flesh, but he held onto the smoking corpse as the coward¡¯s amigos died about him, staring into the empty pits that used to home thoughtless eyes.


    Arturos was right. How dare they attack the Monastery? Threaten the most peaceful and helpful group of people to walk La Terra? These men didn¡¯t deserve to live.


    His grip released the remaining suggestion of a man. Teeth and skin shattered on the ground, brittle coal, like they were never part of a living whole.


    He spat on the wasted flesh and the spit sizzled where it landed. The Juans looked at him wide eyed. ¡°They deserve so much worse. Socorra and Arturo were right. The Ministry must go.¡±


    Other Juan nodded slowly, ¡°Si?.¡±


    Aquiles tried waking his brother. The man was out cold, but he still breathed. A thick legged horse gnawed on its reins in one stable, indifferent to the death around it. They walked it out. Aquiles drew himself onto the saddle then motioned the Juans to heave Arturo into a sitting position in front of him, the unconscious man slumped but stayed steady. They tied their supplies to saddle straps.


    Aquiles kicked at the horse to gallop out of the stable and out of the city. As the horse got to the edge of the stable, Aquiles yanked on the reins, and the horse stopped. He looked back at the oafs, the men that protected them. Simple men. Good men. ¡°I hope to see you again, Juan. And Juan.¡±


    The brothers raised a hand in unison and said, ¡°Adios, Aquiles. Hasta luego.¡± They smiled together.


    Aquiles turned and kicked the horse in the sides, following trails in the trees until he could get to a clearing. He¡¯d meet the road from there, out of sight of the force of the Ministry.

 Chapter 23

    Chapter 23


    Josefa clobbered a stumbling soldier with the meat of her hand, swinging wildly with hammerfisted blows and letting the metal hilt of her knife crack at his skull until the resistance gave way to a soft squelch. She¡¯d been cut several times on her arms, back, and legs. Her blood mixed with the pools on the ground that her feet slipped in.


    ¡°Ven! Ven! Muere! Muere,¡± she cried and wheezed at the pummeled soldier. His feet gave out under him, and a wet splash splattered dark liquids on her legs. The tunnel was full of terrified screams, men cursing and slashing with blades swishing through the blackness. They hit each other more than they hit her.


    Leaden arms and heavier legs carried her stumbling from the tunnel, bashing open the hidden door to the Monastery.  She¡¯d only been in that fray for minutes. Her body resisted any further movements, and she slumped down the wall in front of the Children waiting on the other side. They raised their weapons before recognizing Socorra¡¯s spook of a guardswoman.


    ¡°Qu¨¦ pas¨®? Are you ok?¡±


    A waiting hand lifted Josefa to her feet. She wished the Child would just leave her alone and leaned against the wall, gasping, ¡°There are too many. I must have killed a dozen. They never stopped.¡±


    From within the tunnel, the echoing chaos stilled. ¡°They¡¯re gone! Through the door! Through the door!¡±


    The larger force of Children contended loudly with the larger Ministry force on the other side of the square.


    Josefa lifted her head, pushing a boulder straight into the air, and looked at the carnage. Soldiers came one after the other, tripping over bodies twisted on the floor pumping blood on the ground and walls. Their brown leather gave way to deep red. Entrails shifted as writhing, scarlet snakes under and beside and over the boots of the coming Ministry men, her knives still drunk with the joy of disemboweling one of the soldiers, and she made eye contact with the lead man coming their way.


    ¡°Give me that.¡±


    Josefa snatched a bow from a nearby Child stunned with the wanton death in front of him. Helmets outlined with the light of the hallway showed at least fifty more men in a line down the tunnel. Josefa picked an arrow and drew, string taught and cutting into her wet fingers. She released, breaking the soldier¡¯s eye contact with a thud of sharpened metal into his cheek. The impact spun him around, and he thrashed against the wall.


    ¡°They have no chance of getting through here. Alternate shots,¡± she sighed and met the horrified stares of the dozen Children around her. ¡°Kill them all. Or they will kill you.¡±


    The archer she stole from pointed into the tunnel. ¡°You did all of that?¡±


    Josefa just limped away, spitting a loose tooth to the ground at the Children¡¯s feet. And, despite their trepidation, a steady thrum of arrows and muffled screams crept after her.


    Such a beautiful sound.


    ***


    Socorra¡¯s energy was draining. She downed her last bottle of sweet ichor and continued her precise strikes. No Storms had come after the initial butchery, but what had followed was harder to watch. A press of bodies and wood and steel and screams bowed towards the center of the square. She picked off a Ministry guard when she could see the whites of her eyes.


    They looked just as scared as the Children. Socorra felt sick to her stomach.


    ¡°We aren¡¯t going to hold much longer,¡± Horacio said, voice wavering.


    ¡°I agree.¡± Where were the Juans? She hoped they had success escorting the Greatstorm out, or this would all be for nothing.


    Cries of the Young Ones drifted down from the upper levels, distress at what was happening, what was to come. Why couldn¡¯t the Children up there keep them quiet? They would be found. A hundred men had gotten into the square and traded blows with the Children down here. A hundred more followed them. They were going to lose.


    ¡°How goes it out here?¡±


    Socorra turned to see a figure covered head to toe in blood, white eyes poking out from dark brown and red. ¡°Josefa?¡±


    ¡°Is it that bad?¡±


    ¡°Depends on who¡¯s all that is.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s for the Parents to know now.¡±


    Socorra turned and saw the group of Children outside the tunnel firing arrows into the hidden tunnel. Most were crying, but they continued to shoot.


    ***


    Emiliano was pressed up against a Ministry guard, face to face, screaming at each other. Neither could raise their hands, so they stood there, unable to move with the opposing sides pushing together to kill the other. Tears blurred his vision, and he was afraid. He just wanted to live. He would do anything he could.


    Jorge screamed in his ear, ¡°Head to the side, hermano!¡± Emiliano tilted his head as far as it would go, cheek to cheek with a dead Child drooling blood and held up by the press. He felt something sharp slicing into his cheek, a spearhead, and he couldn¡¯t tell from which direction it came.


    He screamed as it cut to bone.


    Then the soldier trapped at his chest gurgled with a blade in his mouth. The guard¡¯s teeth grated on the metal as it slid down his throat. Emiliano spit vomit down his chest.


    ¡°Push, hermano!¡± Jorge screamed behind him. ¡°Push! Make us room!¡±


    Emiliano shut his eyes. He¡¯d been scared to use the blessings in such a wild manner, his control was lackluster.  He heard Socorra shouting all of the insults in his ears from all of his years as a Storm, dumped by his real parents because the Ministry didn¡¯t bother coming out to their small pueblo in the middle of nowhere.


    ¡°Push, Em!¡± Jorge¡¯s screaming drowned out his doubt from Child Socorra¡¯s voice. ¡°Blast them to bits!¡±


    Emiliano coughed out the vomit remaining in his mouth. Some went into the pried open mouth of the dead man suspended in front of him. He dug deep into the anger and sorrow of his life. A well of madness sprung up within his stomach.


    He screamed again.


    A pure white wall blasted out from him. The dead soldier on his chest exploded in a cloud of red mist, and several Ministry men were lifted off their feet. They came back down in the crowd behind them, opening up little pockets of space where they crushed comrades. The red mist settled over Emiliano and teeth bounced on the ground in front of him. Space opened in the press.


    ¡°Magnifica!¡± Jorge¡¯s hands connected to two soldiers rushing to fill the gap with bolts of lightning.


    A voice behind the press shouted, ¡°Fill that gap! Take the ground!¡±


    Emiliano shuttered as his brother pulled him from the front line. He turned his back on the attackers. Three arrows thumped into Jorge¡¯s back. Emiliano watched his brother fall forward.


    ¡°NO!¡± He shouted a shockwave straight into the air, muffling the sounds of the voices yelling around him.


    Emiliano pulled Jorge grunting with each movement. The downed man pushed with his feet to help Emiliano pull him along. His brother was not dead yet.


    ¡°Someone! Someone help, please!¡± He cried, and snot ran out of his nose. ¡°Please!¡± Jorge¡¯s eyes were fluttering. Child Emilia was standing over other wounded behind the line. Her eyes went wide, and she rushed over to them.


    Emiliano yanked on his brother now. Jorge felt much heavier. He¡¯d stopped pushing, stopped helping. He smacked his brother¡¯s slackened jaw. Jorge didn¡¯t respond, didn¡¯t flutter his eyes. Jorge was gone.


    Emiliano blew bursts of air through his nose in shock. He looked around. His Bolt was dead.


    His back arched with a sudden spasm of agony. Had someone kicked him? No, he watched his fingers bend back on their own and break. His elbows did the same.


    His throat felt strangled, and his body twisted unnaturally about its joints.  Emilia appeared in his vision as it grew over red.


    He was dying. Emiliano tried to scream. He could not. He felt a tear splash on his face, a tiny prick of coolness in a firestorm of pain. His arms and legs felt like they were being torn free then¡­


    Buenas noches, mi hijo.


    ***


    Horacio stood with his sword drawn behind his line and watched it break. That brave Thunderhead had done what he could, but they¡¯d lost.


    He raised his sword before him, ready to face his death and take as many of these heretics with him as he could. Killing men was what he¡¯d been trained to do, trained others to do, but it wasn¡¯t ever about really killing anyone, just a dedication of his time to master an art. But here he was, waiting to use those skills and forms, that steel he¡¯d become so familiar with just to cut another man.


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    He eyed Socorra. She was wrapped in lightning. ¡°It¡¯s time, hermana.¡±


    ¡°Time indeed.¡± Arcs of lightning connected her teeth, and her voice sounded like she spoke from far away, the sound cut to bits by a hundred swords.


    Children in front of him fell back from the line. They were pushed down, shoved over, or clutched at spears in their chests and guts. All the years of their worship and dedication for the Ministry to just wipe them out.


    A prong of soldiers stabbed into the square.


    The first jabbed a spear towards Horacio. He parried it to the side and spun around the woman. His sword continued the motion, spilling the intestines of the next man. He caught the spear bearer with a back swing to the neck, tip of the sword catching and biting into her spine. Horacio whipped the sword free, and she fell slapping at the gaping wound in her neck. And, just like that, Horacio was a killer.


    May the Parents forgive him.


    ***


    Socorra¡¯s fingers burned like holding them in a fire. Her skin blistered with the constant arcs she sent to smite the attackers. For every step she took back, she blasted three guards. They fell to the ground, stiff and drooling, their bodies fried from the inside. Socorra hated watching them die, but not as much as she hated them for what they did. Josefa snarled next to her, knives out, prowling back with Socorra and waiting for the soldiers to get too close.


    Back a step, connection, back a step, a death. Her back hit the wall of the mess hall¡¯s entrance. She sighed and watched the spearheads approach. This was truly the end. Horacio was somewhere in that crowd still. He wouldn¡¯t fall easily, but it was a matter of time.


    Her leg erupted with ice and pressure. She looked down at the arrow sticking from her thigh. A little streak of blood dribbled down her leg. She had no more lightning, she¡¯d used everything she had. Soldiers walked towards her. Weary. Weapons raised.


    She cast frantic eyes around and screamed, ¡°KILL ME!¡± It scratched at her throat, and she wished they would kill her.


    Josefa engaged with a spear wielder, but her movements were slow and clumsy. She was spent. He knocked her to the ground after a few traded blows.


    Socorra had brought ruin on the Monastery, and the innocents here had no idea. The Father betrayed her. Tears welled up in her eyes.


    ¡°Not you,¡± a woman off to the right hissed, ¡°we¡¯re supposed to keep you two alive.¡±


    Socorra made an involuntary sob, desperate for a release. She looked around and grabbed at a knife thrown to the ground. She brought it to her neck, but a soldier slapped it from her grip. She sobbed, like a little girl again, her brother dead in her arms. Socorra sobbed.


    Her wails lifted over a hush falling in the main square.


    From the Great Hall, deep bass thundered through the pyramid.


    The ground trembled.


    Voices began to rise across the Ministry guards. Most turned and watched. A clearing in the center of the square showed Horacio standing, bloody and battered, but alive.


    Something was coming down the hallway.


    All the soldiers turned to protect their backs, sergeants shouting orders to form ranks. ¡°Archers!¡± One of the men cried out. ¡°Archers!¡±


    That thundering was exactly the sound Socorra hoped to hear, and the smell of her blood and fear was washed out by a holy rain.


    ***


    The rear guard was being tossed to the ground and into the air, slammed into the walls and flattened. Footsteps resounded from down the hallway. Pedro watched his men crushed as two figures barreled forward, a storm front over a flat field, clearing a path through their numbers like wind buffeting the grass.


    They were not but dust before that Storm.


    ¡°Bring them down! Archers! BRING THEM DOWN!¡± Pedro screamed to no avail.


    Now, the hallway lit with the ready ferocity of a Bolt waiting to strike. They were getting closer, trampling through the guards. All were crushed under their feet.


    A blast of air blew Pedro¡¯s sergeant cap off his head. A man flew by screaming and flailing his arms. He landed ten yards behind Pedro. More blasts of air carried down the hallway with screams of soldiers trying to get out of the way of this disaster.


    The clearing of men revealed two distinct figures in the charge, not a great squadron of Storms. It was just two men, a Storm, but still only two men. Soldiers dropped, seized with blood bursting from their nose and eyes. A strong storm¡­


    Those were two very large men.


    The one in front looked up, a bull but a second from annihilating a vaquero too confident, face twisted in rage and wrapped in a shockwave that traveled with him. Pedro didn¡¯t think that was possible. His men jumped out of the way, crying for their comrades to move.


    More were crushed, eviscerated now, exploding into pieces at the touch of that white wall.


    ¡°BRING! THEM! DOWN!¡±


    The Thunderhead¡¯s wall disappeared, and the beast of a man jumped forward, feet aimed at Pedro¡¯s chest.


    ***


    Juan didn¡¯t like killing. Juan didn¡¯t like killing either. It was messy and mean, but these people wanted to hurt Socorra. Juan didn¡¯t want people to hurt her. Juan didn¡¯t want people to hurt her either.


    This little man didn¡¯t want to move. Juan would move him.


    ***


    Socorra cried tears of joy as the greatest monolith of a Storm she¡¯d ever trained in her entire life trampled into the guards with a glorious wind.


    A lone man, too stunned to move, waited for them. He just watched as Juan jumped at him, turning in the air.


    Juan¡¯s feet collided with the man¡¯s waist. Socorra heard the spine snap and his head crack into Juan¡¯s shin. A controlled burst of a shockwave from Juan¡¯s feet split the man in two and sent the halves careening. They whistled through the air.


    Wet slaps echoed through the main square, and everyone stared at these new predators among them.


    A roaring of something man had forgotten in civilized life clawed from the twins¡¯ mouths, a cry for revenge and for rage, a prayer from more brutal times.


    Socorra had never heard a more beautiful sound.


    ***


    The little men waited around Juan. He didn¡¯t have time to wait. He started.


    A man screamed as he jerked forward, fist coming to the man¡¯s head and stopping his crying, and the head shot to the floor pulling the body with it like a string had been tied to its neck and yanked it to the earth. Legs flung in the air like a scorpion¡¯s tail.


    Juan kicked the body into a group of soldiers behind, added a shockwave, scattering them.


    The next punch passed through another head with a burst of bone. He swept his hands out, knocking soldiers to fly through the air and splatter on the walls of the square.


    And, like that, he was painting. The walls looked like El Mercado Rojo. Juan liked that market. He continued flinging his fists and ducking arrows. Soldiers split in front of him, thrown about by walls of white air like they weren¡¯t even there.


    ***


    Other Juan, he liked Aquiles¡¯ idea to call him that, reached at all the people he could touch around him. His fingers tingled. They dropped, arms and legs rigid and smoking. Arrows shot at him, but his lightning burned them from the air.


    He slid under the thrust of a sword and shoved his fingers into the muscle about the man¡¯s stomach. He reached through the belly and into the man¡¯s friend behind, burning through his skin and those muscles and his breakfast before the bolt reached his friend and cooked them too.


    Other Juan didn¡¯t like killing, but he would protect Socorra.


    ***


    Josefa watched the crowd press in around the giants and felt a pang of worry. It was quickly sent away when a bubble of air blasted from the crowd¡¯s center sending a squall of men in every direction. Bolts of lightning caught them all in the air, and burnt bones crumbled to dust when they met the floor.


    The brothers battered the crowd back, swinging their massive arms, punching out holes in the retreating soldiers'' ranks. Men exploded at their onslaught, and they burned in flashing blue light. The surviving Children cheered as the last of the soldiers ran from sight.


    The army of two marched them out of the main square in a gory retreat.


    So few remained. They grouped up in the center. What was once a force of a couple hundred Children was down to a handful. Josefa was consoled a little by the Ministry¡¯s losses. Socorra limped over with an arrow sticking from her leg.


    ¡°Now you get a little taste of what I feel,¡± Josefa snorted.


    Socorra gave her a scowl and spat, ¡°Puta.¡±


    Josefa clapped her on the back. They¡¯d protected the Young Ones from a massacre at least. The brothers had saved them in the end. Josefa knew she could rely on them. The survivors all turned as a loud crack blasted from the Great Hall.


    ¡°What was that?¡± Horacio whispered. Deep voices shouted and fought with something.


    Bolt Juan came backing out of the hallway, struggling with a bolt connecting him to a large man in a black robe. The Stranger held an arc as thick as his outstretched arm, twisting his hand as he took relentless steps towards Juan. In his other hand, he held Juan¡¯s brother by the throat. The Thunderhead¡¯s feet were clear off the ground, and he pounded and swatted at the grip on his neck. His feet kicked at the Stranger¡¯s torso. The gray man didn¡¯t register the hits.


    No soldiers followed their leader in, the Juans must have taken care of them only to find the Stranger had survived Arturo¡¯s blast. He didn¡¯t even look injured. His voice rang out across the square, ¡°These are not your champions. These are children. Not strong enough to hold out against one man.¡± The Stranger sneered. ¡°I will break this place. I will break all of you.¡±


    In response, Thunderhead Juan, kicking and trapped in the Stranger¡¯s grip, shouted and swung a hand engulfed in shrieking white and cut the Stranger¡¯s arm off.


    Screeching metal on metal left that mouth, and his assault on the Bolt cut. Juan rushed forward, arms burnt and cracking with fluid. He scooped a spear and drove it into the Stranger¡¯s gut, running him through with the full shaft before hitting the gray man in the chest with his shoulder and carrying him into the wall.


    The spear drove straight into the stone.


    Thunderhead Juan was on his knees coughing, but he threw shockwave after shockwave to pin the Stranger to the spear as unreal hands tried to claw their way off. Red spit dribbled down that gray chin.


    A purple flash connected with the coughing Juan, and he fell to the ground, chest jerking.


    Bolt Juan shouted and pummeled the Stranger¡¯s face with heavy blows imbued with arcs. The pinned man dissipated the energy even in this state. Not enough blood poured from his arm. Josefa started forward to help, trance broken by the violence.


    The Stranger connected another sustained onslaught to Bolt Juan now and took pained steps, pulling himself off the spear. Juan dissipated as much as he could, but his skin was smoldering now. The agony must have been immense. He was flung across the room as the arc of lightning flashed brighter. His head smacked against the stone of the wall. As he slid down the wall, a smear of blood traced his body¡¯s path. His eyes were closed and calm.


    Thunderhead Juan roared to his feet and bounded towards the Stranger. A shockwave took out the gray man at his knees, and Juan leapt onto his chest. The Stranger¡¯s face became a puddle of flesh under the shockwaves and punches that followed. Juan was yelling the whole time.


    Then, his back spasmed. Arched.


    He stopped his mauling and looked at his brother, eyes closed and leaning against the wall. Josefa watched, feet frozen, all of it happening too fast.


    Juan took a few steps towards his fallen brother then fell to the ground. The snapping of bones resounded in the chamber.


    The Stranger stood, a disgusting monster dipped in a vat of its own gore and guts, and his face was becoming remade.


    He trudged towards the great Thunderhead on the ground writhing in the grips of an invisible and cruel force, breaking his fingers and arms and pulverizing his insides. Juan didn¡¯t scream.


    The Stranger lifted Juan to his feet. He nodded at the dying man in respect.


    ¡°A mercy,¡± he said. His hands wrapped around Juan¡¯s throat, he twisted, and a final snap of bone echoed about the pyramid.


    Josefa just watched the brother¡¯s limp forms. The Stranger tossed Juan in his grip aside like a doll.


    The Stranger watched her and Socorra, ¡°I only need you two.¡± His voice was mangled. He looked at the other survivors. ¡°The rest of you may die.¡±


    The group of survivors dropped, choking on lightning cooking their flesh. Horacio grabbed the botanist and held onto her back to protect her for not. Josefa watched Emilia as her hair singed and curled, skin becoming darker and splitting under the load. Horacio fell with her, gone.


    They all stopped struggling at once and went still.


    ¡°Better.¡±


    Socorra had her eyes closed, resigned to the loss. Josefa felt nothing. The satisfaction at killing the Ministry goons was washed away.


    ***


    Aquiles rode hard. He¡¯d made it to the road without being seen. Arturo still sat unconscious in front of him. Aquiles didn¡¯t know where to go.


    He hoped the Children had held up with that gray man blasted all to hell by his brother. He hoped all the Children were safe. He hoped Socorra was unharmed.


    He pulled on the reins and looked back towards the Monastery scraping the sky in the distance. From its peak, a thin pillar of smoke rose to the clouds. He sniffed and smelled the fruity and spicy aroma of jalapenos and habaneros burning.


    The chiles had been planted next to each other, an experiment to see what traits might be shared. He should have said yes. He was so mean to her in the end.


    Aquiles smelled them, and he became hopeless.

 Chapter 24

    Chapter 24


    ¡°Take a deep breath, mi amor. I know these have been hard hours.


    ¡°Keep your eyes on the horizon. The sun rises even on cloudy days.


    ¡°Breath¡­ and know that I am with you. I know this has been difficult. Not much longer until the end.


    ¡°Hope is a stubborn thing.¡±


    Isabella listened to her husband¡¯s words. He recited the proverbs of her childhood, words her father would use on bad days. And good ones. Hope was a stubborn thing. It stuck around the most bitter people, the people with the most loss, and the people without any reason to feel it. Still, it was there, and things would get better.


    Isabella hoped these Father-dam- blessed babies would get out of her already.


    ¡°Push, Isa!¡±


    One final heave, a scream, a deep ache in her groin and back, and then¡­


    A little cry lent an indescribable charm to the room. In darkness, she had pushed and struggled for hours, laboring in birth and pain. That little cry washed it all away.


    ¡°A girl!¡± Roberto exclaimed and held it up to her. She kissed its grimy head, and the pain returned. Isabella knew there were two. One to go.


    The second came so much easier. ¡°A boy!¡± Roberto exclaimed in very much the same fashion. The cords were cut, and they sat with each other in the strangely lit room. A woman in a white coat with odd, stretchy gloves cleaned herself in a wash basin at the corner. The lights in the floor reflected on their baby¡¯s heads.


    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry I cannot name you two.¡± Isabella looked at both the babies with tears. Something in her sparked a terrible fear and anger at the thought of giving them away.


    The woman, so clean, spoke, ¡°Yes, it is a sad thing for blessed mothers. But the joy you must feel at having twins! The perfect pair for the Parents.¡±


    She walked over to Isabella¡¯s side and placed a hand on the baby. The lights lent a hungry cast to her eyes, but still, they looked caring. Isabella nodded and looked back at her babies. The Parents¡¯ blessings. ¡°I¡¯m happy to have been the mother to them. I hope the Parents love them as much as I do.¡± An ache in her heart told Isabella to never let these fragile things out of her grasp. But she had to.


    ¡°Yes,¡± the woman smiled, enamored with the new life, ¡°and how lucky you could come to the Ministry after all. We have more room in the Storm-wing now.¡±


    ¡°Si, que suerte.¡± Isabella¡¯s heart sang a melody of joy at the two beautiful faces, so alike, yet so unique. The girl had Roberto¡¯s nose. Isabella would never forget that cute little nose.


    The aftercare was laborious, but the hours passed, and Isabella and Roberto left to pay wagoneers for a ride back home. Isabella could not wait to have a baby of her own to keep and raise with Roberto. Something tugged at her mind about the Storm she¡¯d given the Parents. The boy¡¯s eyes? The girl¡¯s ears? She couldn¡¯t remember. Well, it wasn¡¯t important. She didn¡¯t know why she was emotional about giving the Storm to the Parents. The Father spoke clear during the aftercare. The Storm would have a better life in the Ministry.


    ¡°Can you believe we almost gave the Storm to the Monastery?¡± Roberto jerked his chin up at the blackened pyramid. It had been burning most of the day, the result of a cleansing by the Ministry. The people in the streets cheered knowing the Ministry had found and eliminated identical demons from within the Monastery¡¯s heretical walls.


    ¡°We were so lucky to serve the Parents as we did,¡± Isabella responded. ¡°Those monks were monsters.¡±


    ***


    Oscar flipped a cob on the fire and let the flames lick at the little kernels. Mai?z was such an interesting crop with so many uses. You had your tortillas, obviously, but you could make booze with it, add it to other dishes, or eat it as the Parents intended: grilled and slathered in fat, queso, and chile?. Little squeeze of lime to top it off, and anybody would be smiling and satisfied with the delectable delicacy.


    A harsh and irritating smoke hung in the air. Oscar glanced up at the smoldering Monastery. He used to respect all its inhabitants, the one wild-eyed woman in particular, dedicated to the Parents and serving the community, but the black pyramid stood now as a monument to the sins of the monks and what they¡¯d done. Harboring a Greatstorm. Que lastima. Oscar hoped the Ministry torched every single one of them.


    Good thing was, now less pilgrims would be coming into town and sticking around like they belonged here. Taking a Capital man¡¯s jobs and leaving the place in worse and worse condition. Oscar knew about those types, he and his friends heard from all kinds of people at the bar about them. They wished the Ministry would just focus on the Capital and stop sending so many of the precious resources out to the country. Of course, he was happy when they sent a contingent of men to fight a wildfire spreading in the cornfields that he acquired his stock from, but he was a working man in the city. He deserved that help. What did the rest of those country folk provide but a little wool and tobacco. And, who really needed those?


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    He shrugged the wool shawl on his shoulders against the cooling air. Summer was over, and Oscar was happy to get the increased business. People loved curling up by his grill with a warming mouthful of elote? on the colder days. He¡¯d start cooking up some hot chocolate soon, maybe another three or four weeks. That would really draw them in. The young man sitting at the counter leaned over the edge, ¡°Cabro?n, how long is this going to take?¡± Oscar glanced at him over his shoulder and continued his cooking. Probably another freeloading pilgrim anyway. The kernels looked to be just the right color, sizzling and popping, and the aroma started to turn to a char and caramel. Perfect.


    Oscar pulled the cob from the grill and took up a spatula of his mayo. He felt the degenerate watching him prepare the elote?. He would do the best job he could, even for people he didn¡¯t like, because that¡¯s the kind of man Oscar was. Not like these types. He scoffed at the man and disguised it like a cough but didn¡¯t say anything. Didn¡¯t want to start any arguments.


    Time for the queso. He dusted it on, and it stuck to the corn in an even, practiced layer. Crumbly and salty and delicious. Oscar snuck pinches of it every couple minutes. Cost him extra over the month, sure, but he liked his treats. His stomach was evidence of that! Dried chile? and lime and then the dish was perfect. Oscar wrapped some thin paper around the stick stabbed into the base of the cob and handed it to the pendejo. ¡°Two pieces.¡±


    ¡°The other places are all one piece.¡±


    ¡°Bien, I¡¯ll take the corn back then.¡±


    The man sucked at his teeth then threw two copper pieces to the counter. ¡°Gracias,¡± Oscar responded straight. He swiped the pieces into his coin purse and turned away from the man. He whispered under his breath, ¡°Cheap pilgrims, too lazy to make real money for their corn.¡±


    ¡°What was that?¡± The man had turned, a smear of mayo on his nose and a cocked head. He wiped it and sauntered back to the counter.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say anything,¡± Oscar hadn¡¯t meant the man to hear him. His heart pounded.


    ¡°You said something to me, amigo.¡±


    Oscar¡¯s eyes darted around, and he raised his hands, ¡°No, I didn¡¯t say anything.¡± His voice was a little shaky. He hoped this wasn¡¯t one of the criminal types from the country.


    ¡°Fat, old man,¡± The pilgrim scowled at Oscar then walked away, taking huge bites of the corn.


    Oscar took a deep breath. This city was falling apart. A new waft of smoke hit his nose from the black pyramid. Those monks were always letting the pilgrims into their halls, no wonder they¡¯d become so evil. He shook his head in disgust and spat into the coals of the grill. ¡°Those monks were monsters.¡±


    ***


    ¡°Hola, papi?. You looking for a good time?¡± Isidora cooed at a passing grotesque man.


    His cheeks were splotchy red against sun-darkened skin, black hair and a thick mustache making his cheeks look even more starkly disgusting.


    He scratched at his sweaty head, ¡°Cuanto?¡±


    ¡°Oh, we can talk about that after I¡¯m done with you.¡± Isidora looked him up and down and bit her lip. He was revolting. He appeared to consider before swatting his hand in her direction and waddling away.


    ¡°Thank the Parents.¡±


    But she needed the money. Her boss took a flat cut, and she needed enough to feed her son. Isidora hated the job. She hated these men. She hated her boss. She was told she would just be dancing. She was lied to. The other girls moved their hips to allure the men that passed, and they took slow steps around the brothel. Isidora couldn¡¯t get the gait quite right. She hated not being able to make as much as those young girls. She hated that they were throwing their lives away in this place.


    A scrawny man, opposite in every way from the one before, walked up and spoke with a squeaky little voice, ¡°I¡¯ll take whatever you¡¯re selling, mami?.¡± He smiled, mouth half filled with rotting teeth, the rest with chewing tobacco.


    ¡°Oh, si?? Come right in.¡± Isidora held his hand behind her and took him to her room. Girls faking moans and disgusting grunts leaked through the walls.


    The smell of her room was all off. That fire at the Monastery was stinking the place up past the regular assortment of stenches. Isidora looked up at the opening in the ceiling of her room. She couldn¡¯t afford to fix it. The smoking pyramid stood, now a black scar on the city. The man followed her gaze. ¡°You hear what they got done in for?¡±


    Isidora nodded, she¡¯d heard about the Greatstorm they had hidden from whispers on the street, and replied, ¡°Si?. Those monks were monsters.¡±


    ***


    Vincenzo laid as still as he could in the infirmary. The doctors had lowered the floor lights in the room to ease the strain on his vision, nice people. His armor lay in a bloody heap in the corner of the room. Bandages covered a goodly portion of his body, and he tried not to look at them. He could feel the sword biting into his shoulder, and it made him queasy. His stomach had been gashed by a spear right after the sword, then an arrow caught him in the calf. The doctors said only the Parents knew how he didn¡¯t bleed out. Vincenzo thanked the Parents for his life.


    His comrades dragged him to the back of the battle after his injuries, and there he laid watching most of the men ripped to shreds by that beast of a Storm. Everyone thought that was the Greaststorm attacking. They realized it wasn¡¯t soon after. The Brother told the survivors not to speak of it. He claimed the Greatstorm was dead. Vincenzo was worried he was wrong. What would demons be able to do if that calamity was just a normal Storm?


    Stabs poked at his lungs and accompanied each breath, and his boredom raked at his brain. He¡¯d been lying still for hours, trying not to inflict any more damage on himself. His room was bare, polished stone. The same black as everywhere else in the Ministry, the same lights as everywhere. It could be pretty, but not when you were confined to a four-pace by four-pace box of it. Vincenzo was told he would live, and he felt like he would. He fought valiantly for the Parents and the Ministry against the host of heretics that had infested the Monastery. He smiled as he watched the Brother burn that black pyramid to the ground.


    They¡¯d left none of those monks alive.


    Not the men.


    Not the women.


    Not the children.


    By the Parents'' guidance.


    He sighed a contented breath and shut his eyes to rest and heal, ¡°Those monks were monsters.¡±