《Sleeping Gods Lie》


 A Clattering

    Lisette was named after a thing she didn¡¯t believe in. Six, on her mother¡¯s knee, she was told in a soothing voice ¡°your name is a good name. It means God is your pledge. It is an oath. Do you know what that means, child? It means the same as promise.¡±


    She hadn¡¯t understood much, but the word oath stuck in her craw like something jagged and bitter. She went to church, like they all did, but she didn¡¯t feel particularly promised. Mostly she just admired the arches and colorful glass of the cathedral; enjoyed breathing the heady smell of incense and waxed wood.


    Church was warm and nice, but she never felt a particular connection to the deity worshipped therein. God was a distant concept, a cold surveyor far detached who spoke in looping, dizzying sentences like her grandfather had.


    The painting that hung near the doors to the nave, depicting the bloody death of a saint, fascinated her far more than the words of the clergy. She stared often at that canvas, at the garish splashes of oxblood red and the masterful strokes that the artist had used to bring faces to life. The pain in the features as blood dripped down a dirty brow. It was violent; a discordant note amid the quiet of worship.


    Often a smarting slap to the hand would bring her to turn back around to face forward. Her mother Katherine was not well-loved there, and with her child craning neck to stare at the martyred saint, other wandering eyes would sometimes find their small family in the pews. Eyes of disapproval.


    But by sixteen, Lisette couldn¡¯t be bothered. She would stray on Sunday mornings to the edge of the wood, where there was a great tree with fat low branches fit for climbing. She would kick off her shoes and scramble up to the top where the view of the surrounding valley spilled out deliciously from the ridge on which their little town was settled.


    Mountains cut off the northeastern horizon, looking fake with their perfectly white snow-caps even in the hottest part of summer, and to the West there was nothing but trees and stony ridges til the sky and land met. On clear days, from her treetop, Lisette could just barely make out the winding path in the trees where a river lay.


    Lumber workers were well familiar with the woods, as were the Armsmen that served as guards of the church. She had watched squadrons of the latter marching into the woods on occasion, looking a bit like black-and-red ants. The kind that bit.


    ¡°Stay far out of their way, Etta,¡± her mother had often repeated the advice over the years. Lisette would cringe at the nickname but nod obediently. ¡°The Armsmen -God bless-¡± Here Katherine would draw a thumb to her chin and make the sign that was meant to ward off evil. ¡°See our laws upheld and our Church safe... But they can be hard men. And best our little family keeps distance. They do not love us here.¡±


    Lisette would nod again. She had been hearing the same since she could remember, and though she had a stubborn streak fit to drive her mother to an early grave, she had never found reason to disagree with what she saw as objective truth. She had seen the stares, heard the whispers.


    For reasons she couldn¡¯t understand, her mother¡¯s acceptance into this village was a delicate thing. Everywhere the woman went there followed an air of disquiet. It was never quite hostility, but there was always the sense that it could become so in a moment if anything untoward happened.


    They were generally a little kinder to Lisette, especially as it became clear that she was not prone to troublemaking. But there were still sneers in the common village areas. Once, when she had been around ten, someone had spat at her in the street. She never did find out who, as they had disappeared before she even wiped the saliva from her cheek.


    By Lisette¡¯s seventeenth birthday, her mother had long since given up dragging her to church. It wasn¡¯t required at that age, after all. She needed only sign a paper stating that her young daughter was home working, and the Armsmen would hardly blink at the empty seat in the pew.


    The freedom of it was a fine thing. She sat in her tree on the edge of the woods like a queen bird, sometimes watching the boys who snuck out behind their school to smoke cigarettes. She was equally terrified and fascinated by those young men, by their puffs of blue-grey smoke that smelled terrible and left the youngest of them always coughing. They were a rare sight in town, where it was mostly adults and young women going about their business.


    Once, on a foggy midwinter Sunday after an Armsmen had shouted a gaggle of boys back inside, Lisette had crept down from her tree and picked up a still-burning cigarette with trembling fingers. She cautiously sniffed it, then took a long drag off the end as she had seen the boys do. Her eyes stung and she nearly gagged, dropping the burning thing and willing her spasming lungs to hold back the fit of coughs that threatened to give her transgression away.


    She scrambled back into the tree and breathed ragged gulps of damp air until the feeling subsided. Her heart felt quick and he mind a little bit sharp and strange, but it hardly seemed worth the acrid taste that lingered in her mouth.


    By eighteen, when she had joined the young women¡¯s circle in town, her girlish flights of fancy had been mostly stamped out. Life and work had taken pounds off her body and put years on her face, and on Sundays when the bells rang for worship she went with the two girls closest to her age, Hannah and Adina, to ready the laundry in one of the workhouses.


    The old man who oversaw the place while everyone was at church leered at them and smelled strongly of tobacco. One morning he had grabbed Lisette¡¯s arm while she walked by with arms full of soiled cloth, and she never forgot the hungry look in his eyes as his other hand traced down her waist to her hip and lingered there.


    ¡°Disgusting,¡± Hannah had said when Lisette, enraged by the unwelcome touch, had hissed the story under her breath as they folded. ¡°But you need to take him with a grain of salt. He¡¯s old, he¡¯s hardly allowed outside.¡±


    ¡°Disgusting,¡± was all Lisette said back, fuming at the towel she had just finished.


    Months passed, and eventually she grew so used to the man¡¯s pinches and gropes that she hardly registered them as she went about her work. Her mom had fallen ill by then, and between taking care of the house and the workhouse chores, Lisette had scarcely a free moment to think.


    Autumn of her nineteenth year, a fire raged through the village, stopping just short of the rectory but taking the front part of the church before the firemen were able to put it out. Whether or not it was caused by a lightning strike or an errant candle was a matter of debate in town for decades after.


    It didn¡¯t affect the Northern half of town, where Lisette and her mother lived, but it did shut down the workhouse for a week to free up hands to help with rebuilding. With all the work halted, the women had nowhere to be, and so Lisette found herself one October morning wandering back to the wood, silently thanking a God she didn¡¯t believe in for having spared her favorite old yew from the fire.


    She smiled at the tree as she would an old friend, reaching out to touch its bark with callused fingertips. Smaller, new trunks were growing in a few places where branches had grown heavy enough to touch the ground. Yew are opportunistic, and those lower limbs had taken root tp begin lives of their own.


    A handful of jackdaws that had been perching in the upper branches took flight at the sight of her. She remembered her mother once calling a group of those a clattering. It seemed like a good word for it now, as their squawking calls echoed back-and-forth through the trees.


    She found a familiar section of trunk and sat, listening to the fading jackdaws and the songbirds that sang all around with closed eyes. Far in the distance she heard laughter and knew that the rest of the women were likely in the square gossiping and taking an early lunch outdoors. Free time was a luxury for them all.


    A soothing daydream was just taking hold when a shadow fell across her, cutting off the warmth of the sunlight. She opened her eyes irritably. A man she only vaguely recognized - he was one of the cigarette boys, now grown - was looking down at her with a strange expression.


    ¡°You¡¯re the bastard girl, aren¡¯t ya?¡± He asked her. His voice and his eyes both had a wicked turn to them.


    ¡°Aye, sir. And how can I help you?¡± She hated the automatic fawning that had been trained into her voice, but a fear had started in her belly and she fell back on what little she knew of men. Appease them and avoid trouble. Head down and be polite, her mother¡¯s voice echoed in her head. Her cheeks burned in shame even as her voice capitulated.


    ¡°You¡¯ve not to church recently. Or to your tree to stare at us outside the barracks.¡±


    ¡°I work now,¡± Lisette responded, casting her eyes down and trying to look demure. Her pulse had quickened and her tongue felt heavy. It wasn¡¯t the longest conversation she¡¯d had with a man ¨C far from it¨C but it was the only one that she had had with a man close to her own age. Something about it made her feel acutely aware of her entire body, from her uncovered tumble of dark hair to the left sock that had drooped a few inches down from the hem of her skirt.


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    His eyes seemed to follow her awareness, combing over her appraisingly. It was a look she had seen in hunting dogs and wild badgers both. A look of calculating before a killing strike. She jerked one hand to her sock to pull it up, and he chuckled, taking a cigarette out of his breast pocket and stepping towards her to strike a match on the tree.


    Her heart was pounding all-out now, making her feel a bit sick, but she remained where she was seated, head turned down but eyes up and watching as the man took a few drags off his smoke and tossed the match to the ground with a flick.


    ¡°Are you scared, bastard child?¡± Smoke spilled out of his nose and mouth and coiled around her. She felt an odd thrill at the smell of it. It was the smell of her childhood rebelliousness, and the memory both bolstered her courage and terrified her simultaneously. She used the second of bravery to hitch the errant sock back up over the exposed skin of her leg.


    The man¡¯s eyes, a light hazel, caught the movement and narrowed with a smile that forcibly reminded Lisette of a snake. One tooth flashed gold, and at the sight of it she felt her fear come to a head. This wasn¡¯t some schoolboy playing games with her. This boy - no, man, she kept correcting herself mentally- was an Armsman. More likely an Armsman-in-training, sure, but it amounted to the same thing.


    She knew deeply in some recess of her mind where instinct still lived, that she was as caught as a rabbit in a trap. She balled her fists in her lap and lifted her head finally to look at him squarely, thinking for some reason again of her mother.


    ¡°No,¡± she said firmly, dropping all semblance of dutiful respect.


    No sooner had her eyes met his than her head was smacked back down with an open palm, the force causing her teeth to snap the tip of her tongue painfully. Tears sprung in her eyes but she willed them back, not wanting him to think they were his doing.


    He put a knuckle under her chin and pushed her face back up to meet his. The smile on his face was indulgent, almost doting. It shown in the sunlight and Lisette thought angrily at the unfairness of him looking like that, of him being beautiful even in this moment. Most of his caste were like that, though. This she knew.


    He held up the burning cigarette to her face and traced one finger down her cheek, her throat, the collar of her blouse. There he stopped, letting her chin go for a moment to free the other hand. He unclasped the collar and unbuttoned it slowly, savoring it. Lisette stared straight ahead and tried to memorize his face.


    There would be no retribution, she knew. Not for her, not against him. She and her mother had lived a quiet life and had been thus lucky. They stayed out of the way, didn¡¯t make waves. The town council was very willing to write off an unmarried pregnant woman so long as she was the right race. So long as she was churchgoing and worked. So long, Lisette often privately suspected, as she was possessed of beauty.


    She had never thought that they were entirely safe, but somehow she also never imagined it to come to something like this. The passing gropes, the higher-born women stealing her clothes away while she bathed, even the inevitable marrying off that she would face once her mother passed. All of those things she had come to terms with. But not this.


    Armsmen were never supposed to notice her. She hadn¡¯tprepared for that. She realized suddenly that what she had thought she had been watching as a child ¨C schoolboys ditching class¨C hadn¡¯t been that at all. They had been cloistered, in training, and that fence was never meant to have a young girl¡¯s eyes looking down into it. The reality of it hit her hysteric brain and she bit her tongue again to avoid laughing out loud.


    ¡°Tsk tsk,¡± the man whispered, mistaking her suddenly clamped jaw as more defiance. ¡°You should be afraid, sweetling.¡± He yanked her blouse down and drove the lit cigarette hard into her left breast, eyes bright as she yelped in pain and tried to pull away. He brought one hand behind her and held her fast, skin burning away til the ember was completely out.


    ¡°Mmm,¡± he whispered, coming closer to her face. ¡°Are you scared now?¡± His breathing was uneven. She realized in horror that he was excited. He tossed the stubbed out cigarette aside and cupped her chin, sliding one ashy finger into her mouth. Her jaw trembled and he looked appeased at the sign of fear.


    His mistake. Just as his other hand crept up her skirt like a foul spider, she made a split decision and bit down. Hard. Blood exploded in her mouth and she spit it directly into his surprised face, savoring the flash of wavering confidence that had flashed by before rage contorted his features. He pulled his injured hand back with an outraged scream.


    ¡°Fuck you!¡± She screamed at him, reaching up to a familiar branch overhead and scrambling onto it. She climbed up as fast as she possibly could, still trying to keep an eye on him over one shoulder. The man grinned wider than ever and, forgetting his mutilated finger entirely, grabbed both her ankles just as her feet nearly disappeared above him. She kicked furiously, missing his head by inches, and held on so tight to the bark that her own hands began to bleed.


    It was no use, though, and she was slowly, painfully dragged from the safety of the tree. With a final yank he brought her back to the ground and laughed wildly. Her head smacked against a root and stars popped in her vision, but she was still thrashing about trying to defend in all directions at once.


    The Armsman descended on her all at once, pinning her between his knees and leveraging his weight to immobilize her. One of her arms was caught entirely beneath her, twisting painfully. The other she tried to strike him with, but he caught and held her wrist as if she had no strength at all. She screamed again as he tore the rest of her blouse off. A button popped and hit him in the cheek, and the scream suddenly dissolved into laughter.


    He smiled and yanked her skirt up. She tried to free her twisted arm, to no avail. He saw her trying and pulled her skirt intentionally hard, getting it free from under him and burning her skin in the process. She suddenly thought of that day in the street, and as he leaned into her face she spit as hard as she could. It got him right in the eye, a small triumph.


    ¡°Well now,¡± he said, not even bothering to wipe it away. His voice was lower now, almost conspiratorial. ¡°That probably wasn¡¯t wise.¡± His cold hand grabbed her thigh, fingers digging in as if he intended to take a handful of her flesh.


    Sensing a nearing point of no return, Lisette moved like a thing on fire, calling upon muscles she hitherto hadn¡¯t known existed. She twisted and writhed and tried with all her might to buck him off. He outweighed her grossly, though, and without her arms free there was little she could do. One final, wild thrash and she found herself out of energy entirely. She lay still then, panting, baring her bloody teeth at him in a way that promised another bite if he dared get close enough.


    For his part he looked calm. Unfazed, except for a frowning glance down at his bloodied finger. ¡°Where did all this fight come from?¡± He mused. ¡°Surely not from your whore mother?¡±


    She refused to take the bait. He could overpower her physically, but she wouldn¡¯t allow him to best her in any way that counted. Brute strength was easy. He sighed at her exasperatedly, his fun clearly spoiled. ¡°All for naught, I¡¯m afraid.¡± He sounded hideously sincere. ¡°I¡¯ll still have you, bitch girl, and I think in recompense for my finger I¡¯ll have your mother, too, once we¡¯re finished.¡± He smiled warmly, tearing a strip of fabric from her skirt. She said nothing, did nothing but watch as he wrapped the cloth into a makeshift bandage for his finger and inspected it.


    ¡°My good hand, too,¡± He muttered, using the non-injured one to pin her free arm while the other reached for something at his side. There was a small snick sound and a small, thin silver blade appeared. It glinted beautifully as he held it up, moving it back and forth as if to catch the reflections of green and early-fall-orange. Then, moving impossibly fast, he brought the blade to Lisette¡¯s chest, just below the sternum. It was cold on her bare skin.


    She winced as he leaned forward, close to her face. ¡°I don¡¯t mind if you fight, girl. But if you take any more of me,¡± he jerked his chin towards the bandaged finger for emphasis. ¡°Then this little sticker goes into your ribs. And trust me, that prick is a lot more painful than the other one. In fact, you might find you rather enjoy the other one.¡± The smile no longer looked warm. Or even sane.


    His strike was again unnervingly fast, and before she even registered his movement both Lisette¡¯s arms were pins and needles and good as useless. He had hit a nerve on both of them, elbow-striking just below the shoulder. She whimpered in true terror then at last, kicking her legs as hard as she could. The church bell tolled in the distance and another group - no, clattering - of jackdaws startled at the sound and took to squawking their distress. The Armsman cocked his head towards the sound, looking human again for a brief moment.


    All at once sensation rushed back into Lisette¡¯s free arm and she felt her knuckles resting on a rock about the size of tangerine. It was her last hope. She grabbed it awkwardly, straining her wrist, then bucked her hips forward as hard as she could so that the man on top of her had to rebalance. He pitched forward slightly, knees momentarily losing their pressure, and she brought the stone against his face as hard as she could. Blood flew. The birds overhead screamed.


    The force of the strike sent him crumpling to the side, and she got to her feet as fast as she could. Her body, especially the twisted shoulder, was aching and unsteady, but the relief of gaining her feet had given her second wind. She braced herself just in time for her attacker to fly at her. He tackled her hard, driving her off her feet for a moment, and she had barely enough time to think before grabbing onto him and throwing her weight around, using the momentum of her own fall to slam his back into the tree. He made a strangled sound upon impact.


    Lisette caught her breath and shoved hard against his chest, thinking only to maximize the distance between them. To get away, far away. But instead another odd gasp came from him, and a rivulet of blood bubbled out of his mouth. She glanced down, and he followed her gaze. His eyes widened.


    The tip of a broken-off branch of yew just barely poked out from the center of his chest. Blood pooled in a rapidly widening ring around it. He voiced a wordless scream of rage, attempting to push himself off the impaling branch, and the scream cut short in a wet cough. Blood splattered across Lisette¡¯s face. His rage turned to desperation, then fear.


    She watched as his panicked, fading, gasps brought more and more blood pouring down his chin, messing the entire front of his shirt. He began to choke. Those hazel eyes rolled to look at her, and he managed a final grotesque bark of laughter before such things left him forever. At last he was still.


    Silence rolled across the edge of the wood, punctuated only by the occasional splattering of blood dripping to the ground. A light breeze blew the hair from the dead Armsman¡¯s forehead and Lisette shivered.


    A number of feelings slammed into her all at once, vying for control. Disgust, remorse, and terror were the main three. She barely repressed a gag. Her entire body was trembling. Whether from cold or from shock, she didn¡¯t know or care.


    She thought of her mom, at home in bed waiting for her. She thought of Hannah, and of the church and the large building where the Armsmen cloistered until they were shipped off. She looked at the body. The dead body, pinned against the tree and still bleeding. There would be no coming back from this. She would be tortured. She would be killed.


    A peal of laughter, far-off, sent her into a panic. All at once she became aware of how perilously close to town she was. Had anyone heard the struggle? Or his scream? Could she somehow escape? Where would she go? Why had she fought back? Why, why, why? She knew if she had just let it happen then she would likely be on her way home now. Disheveled and shaken but alive. Alive, and safe.


    She had fought back instinctively. It was self-defense. It was automatic, and against everything she had been raised to do. Where was that obeisance her mother had so often drilled into her?


    ¡°Shit,¡± she whispered to herself. There were two options now, so far as she could see: Either accept her fate and let all that struggle have been for naught, or keep fighting. She wiped the blood and tears and dirt from her mouth with the back of one bare arm, walked shakily back to the tree, and grabbed the bleeding corpse around the waist.


    Blood, warm and sticky, soaked her back and dripped unpleasantly down her chest. The urge to gag came again and she pushed it back. She could give in to that disgust later, after she took care of this. It was a marvel what the mind could ignore to protect itself during crisis. Squatting for leverage, Lisette gritted her teeth and pulled.


    He came away easier than she had expected. For the second time they were carried into each other by momentum, this time the dead weight of him narrowly missing pinning her once more as she toppled over.


    The Armsman¡¯s body landed just beside her, grotesquely bloody. His head lolled and a fresh puddle began to expand in the dirt beneath him. Those hazel eyes, so jarringly beautiful, looked like they would blink at any moment.


    ¡°What am I doing,¡± she whispered to herself, pushing up to her knees. The shock must have worn off, because suddenly the full horror of it all sank in and Lisette came apart entirely. She hugged her knees and sobbed, crying like she had never cried before. Alone in the woods and surrounded by the tangy smell of blood, she felt impossibly small. Impossibly alone.


    After awhile a jackdaw, possibly one of the same from before, landed on the ground beside her. She had cried herself mostly out by then, and the tears that still streamed were silent. The bird cocked its head at her and she stared at it in return.


    A strange, dreamy feeling like a memory of a memory overtook her. She tried hazily to recall what it was and suddenly found herself face to face with a small boy. He was dressed oddly, and looking at her even more oddly. The dreamy feeling intensified when she made eye contact. Were his eyes black?


    ¡°Sleep?¡± He asked. Nausea gripped Lisette. She wondered if the strange child was asking about the Armsmen. An irrational thought: What if this boy was family to the dead man? Flared briefly in her exhausted brain. Was she going mad? She heard squawking in the branches above her, looked up to find the source, and instead found her vision tunneling. Darkness wrapped around her, the promise of unconsciousness so sweet that she ran to it.

 The Death-Tree

    When Lisette came to, there was only darkness and a strange voice hissing in the distance. It was a coarse voice, with an even coarser accent. She tried to open her eyes to see whom it belonged to, but her eyelids wouldn¡¯t move. None of her muscles would, in fact. Everything felt so leaden with exhaustion that her body might as well have belonged to someone else entirely.


    She realized in a distant, far-off way that this should be very upsetting. Frightening, even. But the tiredness was so complete that she found she didn¡¯t really mind. The only pressing thing was the desire for sleep. When darkness crept in again, she welcomed it.


    For an unknowable length of time, consciousness rose and fell like a tide, dark nothingness at its height and the return of her senses one by one as it pulled back. During those ebbs she would hear snippets of conversation, or distant voices that she couldn¡¯t quite make out. Smells or sensation would drift in. Often she wasn¡¯t sure if they were all just dreams.


    At one point she heard another strange voice beside her. This one was rich and deep and pleasant, and again Lisette tried and failed to open her eyes. She could smell something that reminded her of church incense and woodstoves. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m sure,¡± the strange voice said quietly. ¡°We need to¡­¡± The smell and the voice faded as the tide rose again.


    At last, though whether it had been hours or days she could not tell, full consciousness hit Lisette like a lightning strike. Her eyes snapped open, her heart pounding. All at once she realized she was too warm. There was a thick, velvet blanket¡ª far heavier than the one she used at home¡ª wrapped around her. She struggled to disentangle herself from it while her eyes adjusted to the dim light.


    Above her there was a curved canvas where there should have been a roof. It was lit by a single low-burning oil lamp, which explained the semi-darkness, and she could see that her strange new surroundings were small and cramped.


    It didn¡¯t look like any room she¡¯d known. A wooden floor barely two paces wide met wooden walls that ended too low, and canvas stretched taut over the top of it. There was a small door in the wall at her feet, complete with a tiny brass latch. The floor was covered in myriad rugs, clean but so mismatched that it was obvious even in the forgivingly low light.


    No furnishings other than the rugs and a small chest pushed up against one corner, on top of which a pile of dirty cloth she recognized must be the remains of her clothes. Her clothes?! Horrorstruck, she looked down at her bare chest and remembered everything in a rush. The tree, the Armsman. The blood.


    Her stomach rolled and cold sweat broke out on her forehead. The memories were vivid to the last detail, but try as she might they ended abruptly at her attempt to pull the Armsman¡¯s corpse from the tree. Had she been captured? Was this strange place a cell somewhere, where she would await execution?


    She clambered to her feet, ignoring the pins and needles in her legs, and tried to get dressed. The tattered clothes were impossible to make sense of, though, and after a frenzied attempt at untangling she threw them aside and scrambled to the door naked.


    She tried the knob. If it was locked, her worst fears would be confirmed. Already an oppressive sense of claustrophobia was nipping at the heels of her thoughts. Please, she whispered, not quite a prayer. Please!


    The knob turned easily. With dizzying relief and trembling hands, she pushed the door open a few inches and peered out to find a young boy peering right back in at her.


    Lisette shouted once in surprise, jumping high enough to hit her head on the doorframe. The boy jumped, too. ¡°Who are you?¡± She demanded, forgetting entirely all of what she had been taught of propriety. The boy grinned. He didn¡¯t seem at all embarrassed by her nudity, which was odd enough on its own, but he also made no attempt to speak.


    He bowed his head and made a few strange, quick movements with his free hand before pushing a plate gently into the cracked door. Lisette smelled bread and something sweet that made her stomach growl. She cautiously opened the door enough to take the plate.


    The boy grinned wider, made a motion from the plate to her mouth, and hopped down to the ground. Down? Lisette, curious, widened the door further and noticed that the door was a couple feet off the ground. A three-staired step ladder led down to a flat patch of dirt.


    It was then she noticed the others. Five silhouettes in the twilight, all in various states of repose around a small fire. They were all looking at her, and in her dazed confusion it took her a long moment to remember that she was completely unclothed. She jumped backwards into the safety of the room, throwing the door shut.


    Her clothes were useless, so she opted for the blanket instead, pulling it around her like a cloak without even having to set her plate down. Once assured that everything was covered, she returned to the door and pushed it wide.


    ¡°Better?¡± One of the strangers had gotten up from the fireside and come to stand a few paces away. Lisette tried her best to remain calm despite a racing pulse and thoughts to match. These people hadn¡¯t tried to hurt her, yet, so far as she could tell, and whoever they were they didn¡¯t look like Armsmen. She would give them a chance if only because she didn¡¯t see any other option.


    The person who had spoken was a tall, middle-aged man who looked to be around her mother¡¯s age, if her mother had led a much easier life. The lines in his face spoke of laughter and good spirit. He was clean-shaven and well muscled with dark eyes and darker skin, and he showed none of the hunched over exhaustion that plagued her mother.


    His voice was booming and likable. ¡°I¡¯m Diago,¡± he said. ¡°I dare say you were in quite some trouble when we found you.¡± He remained standing a safe distance off as he introduced himself, either for his own protection or to ensure that Lisette did not feel threatened. She was grateful.


    ¡°Th-thank you,¡± Lisette stuttered out. Her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat, hating how weak she sounded. ¡°But who are you? How did I get here? Come to think of it, where is here? When can I go home? Is-¡± she paused, feeling very vulnerable indeed. ¡°Is home far?¡±


    Diago looked sympathetic. ¡°Well, let¡¯s build up some trust first, then we¡¯ll see if we can¡¯t answer some of your more pressing questions. To start, why don¡¯t you eat? I promise it¡¯s not poisoned. We wouldn¡¯t go through the trouble of rescuing you just to poison your supper.¡± He smiled, then frowned at the expression on her face.


    ¡°Rescued?¡± She spat at him before she could stop herself. She was so tired, so hungry, so angry that it seemed she had latched onto the first thing she could find to rage against. She hadn¡¯t asked for their help, nor wanted it. She hadn¡¯t wanted any of this! Tears of rage filled her eyes.


    ¡°Woah, okay, easy, easy, I¡¯m sorry. We saw what was going on and decided to step in.¡± The older man held up both his hands. ¡°Easy, child.¡±


    Mollified and embarrassed, Lisette grabbed the bread off the plate she still held clenched in one hand and scarfed it down, barely registering the taste of the honey that had been drizzled over it. When that was done she sat down, hard, feet hanging off the top step. She realized she was crying.


    The food had cleared her head, but that came with a sharp awareness of just how dire her situation was. What had she done?! Memories of the dead Armsman flashed through her mind in painful detail. She could smell his blood, feel his weight pinning her against the ground, feel every stone on the ground that dug painfully into her bare back.


    All at once it felt like she was choking. She gasped through the tears, dropping the plate to the ground to clutch at her throat with both hands. The blanket fell from her shoulders, but in her panic she hardly noticed. She thought she was choking, having a heart attack. Dying.


    Strong hands grabbed hold of her shoulders with such force that Lisette was shocked out of her hysterics. She looked up to see an ugly old woman, wrinkled face scarred from brow to chin, glaring at her.


    The old woman¡¯s eyes seemed to be the only untouched part of her face. They were crystal blue and keen, and they stared so intently into those of the younger girl that Lisette forgot to cry for a moment. Then, all at once, the woman pulled her forward into a hug. It was like a vice, but it did the trick.


    The panic flared for a moment, then calmed back to tears. Lisette felt like her entire life had been a strange fever dream, and one that she had suddenly woken up from. She despaired at the thought, sobbing into the strange woman¡¯s camphor-scented shoulder.


    She cried for her mother, and for the Armsman¡¯s death, and for the shame of what he¡¯d nearly done to her. She cried for her old life that she somehow knew she could never go back to. She cried in fear of the unknown, fear for the future, fear of these strange people.


    And when at last no more tears would come, she found that she was holding tightly onto the strange old woman. She let go hurriedly. The woman stepped back. ¡°...Thank you,¡± Lisette whispered awkwardly. Her voice was nearly gone. The woman merely nodded and retreated back to the fire.


    Nobody was talking anymore. The three people who had remained fireside were staring openly. Lisette felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She pulled the blanket back over her shoulders and was about to murmur something to the affect of an apology when something streaked overhead and landed in her lap.


    It was small and grey and followed immediately by another. Then another. They were jackdaws, she realized. More and more flew down to her. Five rested in her lap and at least another six crowded around her on either side. Two were on her emptied plate on the ground, pecking for crumbs. She sat perfectly still, delighted and awed by their tiny feathered bodies so close.


    ¡°What...¡± Lisette spoke softly. She wondered if this wasn¡¯t all some bizarre dream.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± Diago said, startling her. At some point he had come up right beside her, one hand on the wood just beside the doorframe. She hadn¡¯t even noticed. ¡°They don¡¯t really listen,¡± he added, flapping a hand lazily at the birds. They ignored him completely.


    ¡°Are they... Pets?¡± Lisette asked timidly, not daring move a muscle. She had seen a bird up close only once in her life, in the priory garden. It had been a tiny song sparrow, and the Sisters had luxuriated in telling everyone how it was a pet. A tame beast, they had said. Not used for ratting or hunting but just for company. A rare luxury.


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    These birds were plainer than the sparrow had been, but they had a keen intelligence in their eyes that enchanted her. They were so much lighter than she would have imagined, too, even with nearly a dozen perched on her in various places.


    Diago laughed, a sound that was so jovial and so loud that she startled, causing a few of the birds to flap their wings and squawk irritably. Lisette cut a glance at the tall man, wondering at how different he was from the men she¡¯d known.


    ¡°No, they¡¯re not pets,¡± he said, grinning. ¡°They¡¯re more like pests than anything else. But they will follow him, so, we make do.¡±


    More confused than ever, Lisette watched fascinated as one of the birds began to peck at strands of her hair with a gentle beak. ¡°Well I think they¡¯re lovely,¡± she said quietly, more to the birds than to anyone else. A vague sense of deja vu distracted her from them and she looked up, trying to pinpoint the feeling before it slipped away.


    The boy that had given her the plate approached, and the birds all took flight at once. Three went to him- two on one shoulder and one on another- and the rest of them disappeared into the trees. Lisette was a little saddened by their leaving. She smiled warily at the boy.


    Up close, she thought he looked otherworldly. He had to have been no older than ten or eleven, and slight of stature for his age, but there was a world-weariness about him that spoke of wisdom. His hair was pale gold and curly and long enough to brush past the shoulder, and his skin was paler than even her own. His eyes, though, were dark. Incredibly dark. The irises were so deep they seemed to swallow up his pupils entirely.


    He wore an oversized knit coat and black pants with no shoes, his bare feet filthy. A few leather pouches were tied to a belt that he wore like a sash. From one of these he pulled something tiny and fed it to a jackdaw on his shoulder.


    ¡°Hello... Again,¡± Lisette said awkwardly. The boy again gestured in that odd, fluttering way.


    ¡°This is Az,¡± Diago said. ¡°He doesn¡¯t speak.¡± He tapped an ear. ¡°Born deaf.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Lisette didn¡¯t know what to say. ¡°Sorry...¡± She knew of deafness and of blindness, but children with such ailments were typically kept out of sight by their parents or sold off to work quiet jobs in darkness.


    Az didn¡¯t seem to mind her awkwardness. He grinned and made a motion at the birds on one shoulder. They all flew off, and he pulled something out of his coat with a flourish. It was a stick, one end snapped off and totally unremarkable. He walked up and set it in Lisette¡¯s lap, dark eyes sparkling, and began to move both hands again.


    ¡°He says, that came from the Death-Tree. The yew. He took it for you.¡±


    Feeling rather slow, Lisette took the stick and looked at the boy, then Diago, then back to the boy. ¡°Sorry, but, how do you know what he says?¡±


    That drew laughter from a couple of the strangers sitting by the fire as well as from Diago. ¡°He speaks with his hands,¡± he explained, showing her what he meant by briefly gesturing something in the same odd rapid succession that Az had. ¡°He signs.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± was all she could think to say again. She set the stick down gingerly behind her, not wanting to offend anyone.


    ¡°It was mighty lucky that you chose a yew to get into trouble under. Those are death-trees, you know.¡±


    ¡°I... What?¡± Feeling duller by the second, Lisette wondered once more if she wasn¡¯t simply in the throes of some vivid dream.


    ¡°Hm,¡± Diago said thoughtfully. ¡°Why don¡¯t you get dressed, then join us by the fire? I think we all need to talk.¡±


    ¡°There are some old things of my granddaughter¡¯s in the chest inside there,¡± the old woman called over. ¡°They might be close to fit.¡±


    Lisette found that they did fit, almost perfectly, though they were things she would never have dared worn otherwise. She settled on a green top with loose, impractical sleeves and a faded skirt that was uncomfortably short. She may have protested had the entire group of people not already seen her naked. Her shoes were nowhere to be found, so she stayed barefoot.


    Diago wordlessly handed her a coat when she stepped down from the door. It fell almost to her shins but was wonderfully warm, the interior lined with something softer than wool and twice as insulating. ¡°Thank you,¡± she told him politely.


    Fully outside at last, she could see that her room had not been a room at all, but rather a large wheeled cart. She had seen similar vehicles on the road at home, but this one was far more beautifully made. It was built of a reddish wood, and finished to such a sheen that it caught firelight in every polished whorl. A detached hitch lay in the dirt beside it, though she couldn¡¯t see any trace-beast that might pull it.


    Farther off and nearly hidden in shadow there were a few bigger structures that might have been proper passenger wagons. Diago let her look for a moment then ushered her forward to where the rest of the strangers waited.


    Az was seated cross-legged on the dirt now, two Jackdaws in his lap. One of them leaned up into his finger appreciatively as he scratched its head.  Not knowing anyone else beyond a glance, Lisette sat down on the empty dirt beside Az.


    Diago opted for a thick rug on the other side of the fire, folding his long legs beneath him with a groan. The old lady was sat on a stump to his left, and to her left another man lounged on his back with a hat pulled over his face. Between the hat and the shadows outside the immediate ring of firelight, Lisette could barely make him out.


    She looked instead at the rest of the gathered group. There was a skinny old man with no hair on Diago¡¯s right, and beside that a woman that couldn¡¯t have been much older than Lisette herself.


    ¡°Let¡¯s start with the simple,¡± Diago began, voice carrying effortlessly through the night air. ¡°What is your name, child?¡±


    ¡°Lisette,¡± she responded after a nervous pause. Then, remembering her manners: ¡°Nice to meet you.¡±


    Diago beamed at her. ¡°Pleased to meet you, too, Lis.¡±


    Lisette nearly corrected him, out of habit, but found that somehow that nickname didn¡¯t bother her nearly as much as her mother¡¯s dreaded Etta. She watched as Diago signed to Az. ¡°Telling him your name,¡± he explained.


    ¡°I¡¯m Brinna,¡± the old lady croaked with a toothy grin. Her voice was nearly as startling as her scarred face, but somehow still friendly.


    ¡°Pleased to meet you, Ama,¡± Lisette used the honorific instinctively, noting how the woman frowned for a moment before nodding with raised eyebrows to the bald man.


    ¡°Teo,¡± he said. His voice was rough, and Lisette recognized it as one of the voices she¡¯d heard while she slept.


    ¡°Call me Trin,¡± the ginger woman said softly. Her voice was deep and coloured with the throaty accent of the north. Many of the higher class visitors that sometimes attended Church or toured the workhouses had spoken with the same accent.


    Lisette offered a smile that was not returned and instead looked to her right, where the final unintroduced member of their strange party lounged just out of sight. He said nothing, though, and nor did anyone prompt him to.


    Instead, Diago spoke across the fire. ¡°Now tell us, Lis. How is it you fell afoul of that ill-fated young Armsman?¡±


    ¡°I was... I didn¡¯t-¡± Lisette stammered, nervous with everyone¡¯s eyes on her. ¡°I was just sitting in my tree.¡± Her lips felt numb.


    ¡°Aye, yes! The death-tree! Tell us how¡¯t happened that you... Foolish, denominated girl...¡± The bald man burst out, leaning towards the fire with his eyes accusingly pinned on Lisette. The flames cast eerie shadows on his features.


    ¡°Calm, calm Teo!¡± Diago hissed. ¡°We agreed.¡±


    Teo settled back, staring into the fire with a furrowed brow. There was a moment of tense silence. Lisette¡¯s anxiety grew, creeping up her spine and filling her with a nameless dread. She felt her life as she knew it unraveling by the second, fraying more and more into something like a half-remembered dream. It was terrifying and disorienting.


    ¡°Start from the beginning, Lis.¡± Diago¡¯s eyes, dark though they were, shone with a gentle understanding. Lisette looked at him and only him, steeling herself, and began the tale with the proper beginning: How she had in younger days spent Sundays perched in the topmost branches of the yew that these strange people called, the Death-Tree.


    Nobody spoke as she talked, and the only movement was Diago translating for Az with precise hand movements after each sentence. Az and the old woman, Brinna, made various noises of discuss as she recounted the Armsman¡¯s attack, but they made no comment. It was gratifying to see that nobody here seemed to think it had been her fault.


    ¡°And then... I guess I woke up in there,¡± Lisette pointed over her shoulder to the cart as her story finished. She had talked so long that her throat was dry, but she felt better. It seemed as if she had bled a bit of the poison out of the memory by retelling it.


    ¡°An accident...¡± Diago mused once she had fallen silent. He glanced at Teo, who was shaking his head with raised eyebrows. ¡°Just an accident,¡± Diago repeated. His features danced with something like glee.


    Confusion mounting, Lisette was just about to ask what he was talking about when loud laughter cut her off. To the right of Az, the fifth and final member of the strange band had joined the discussion at last.


    His eyes were wildly bright in the firelight, blue and set in a tanned face that looked half-mad with laughter. His hair was so light that the flames turned it orange. Once everyone was looking at him, the laughter snapped off like a dry twig. His expression steeled and the silence of his companions was such that he barely needed to speak above a whisper.


    ¡°Mighty convenient, all this, no? The timing is... One might say, improbably perfect.¡± His teeth flashed in a sarcastic smile.


    Lisette recognized that voice immediately. She had heard it, wondered at it while she was fading in and out of consciousness. It was a rich voice, lilting with an unfamiliar accent and pleasant despite the danger in his tone.


    ¡°Daltir,¡± Diago started cautiously. ¡°We have absolutely no reason to believe anything beyond what the girl has presented to us as truth. She was nearly killed, after all.¡±


    ¡°Armsmen are not above attacking their own,¡± he said quietly. He turned towards Lisette now, and she felt cold under the full weight of his gaze. ¡°We should have left her there.¡±


    Outraged at the unfairness of his anger, Lisette jumped to her feet. ¡°That¡¯s it!¡± She shouted. ¡°I don¡¯t know who you all are, I don¡¯t know what the hell is going on, but if you expect me to sit here in the dark while you tell me nothing and- and imply that I¡¯ve... I¡¯ve done something...¡± Startled then by her own boldness, she lowered her voice. ¡°Just tell me what all this is about, or leave me alone!¡± She realized she was crying again and hated herself for it.


    The man Diago had called Daltir was still staring, but now his expression was unreadable. Nobody said anything, but some silent communication shared through glances and facial expressions seemed to pass around.


    Fed up entirely, Lisette dropped the oversized coat and walked off into the dark. Let these strange people deal with their own problems. She wanted nothing more in that moment then to run all the way home, damned the consequences. She wanted her mother, her bed, even her god-forsaken ¡°death¡± tree.


    If they were waiting to arrest her at the town gates, then so be it. She would at least know briefly some sense of familiarity. This is mad, she thought to herself. The darkness grew around her as she walked, the crackling of the fire replaced by the buzzing sound of night insects.


    The air, much cooler outside the ring of light and warmth cast by the fire, felt good on her damp cheeks. She breathed it in slowly and allowed it to wash some of her anxiety away. It felt good to be away from all those eyes.


    She noticed a familiar rock in her path then, and wondered if she was going in circles. Hadn¡¯t she already passed that? She walked by it slowly, giving it an angry look as she did so. When she looked forward again, Az was standing there.


    ¡°Good at sneaking up on people, aren¡¯t you?¡± She asked before remembering he couldn¡¯t hear her. She noticed his bird friends were nowhere to be seen. She also noticed that he looked scared.


    Wordlessly, he took one of her hands in his smaller ones. Lisette felt a jolt of disorientation, as if the ground under her had shifted, and she found herself inexplicably, miraculously back where she had started, standing in the ring of firelight beside the coat she¡¯d discarded. And everyone was still watching her.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± Diago said to her, sounding tired. ¡°I don¡¯t like him to do that but, we can¡¯t let you go.¡± At the flash of panic in her eyes he added, ¡°At least not yet. Not til we explain some things.¡±


    Lisette was stunned out of her anger. ¡°How did I get back here?¡± Az gave her hand a squeeze and sat back down in his spot by the fire, looking sad.


    ¡°One of his many gifts, child.¡± Brinna answered.


    ¡°Gifts...¡± Lisette repeated. Memories came to her. Warnings. Tales of horrible deaths to children who wandered into the woods and fell afoul of witches. Public hangings, burnings, lashings. Hannah¡¯s older sister, who had been paraded naked through the streets after a man accused her of charming his son. The horrible, bloody mess in the square that the bishop had called the evil result of someone dabbling too far into wicked arts.


    Lisette had thought them paranoia and scare tactics. She hadn¡¯t believed any of it, any more than she¡¯d believed in their God. Her stomach lurched now with fear. ¡°So he¡¯s... You¡¯re...¡± She found herself looking to Diago for an explanation or reassurance. He merely sighed. When someone finally spoke, it was Diago.


    ¡°Suffice it to say we¡¯re enemies of the church.¡±

 Hallowed

    Two years earlier


    Azrael picked at his food, sensing his father¡¯s anger in the silence. He had become accustomed to picking up on how things felt in the soundless world which he inhabited. Seven years of deafness had trained his other senses to recognize how a mood stirred the air around a person, or accented their signing just so. He was able to feel the cold emptiness in a room after someone had cried in it, could feel the contagious glow that hung about lovers.


    So he didn¡¯t need to hear the furious silence to feel it. He hazarded a glance up and across the massive wooden table where they took their meals. There was a stormy look on his father¡¯s features that usually preceeded a rage. Any minute now, the man would explode.


    Wanting to head it off, Az shoved his plate aside and stood up. He signed, ¡°why have you called me here?¡± With a stormy look of his own and gritted his teeth in anticipation of the flurry of movement and vibration that would surely follow. It didn¡¯t come.


    Instead of rampaging around the room at his son¡¯s insolence, Azrael¡¯s father and Chancellor-on-high of the Eastern Colonies set down his fork and frowned.


    ¡°Azrael...¡± He began, whistling sharply for the interpreter. Azrael automatically turned towards one of the gilt and sparkling walls, where a doorway led to the servant¡¯s chambers. His lifelong interpreter, a dark man who signed almost without any accent at all, hurried into the dining hall and stood dutifully by to translate. Diago quickly signed a greeting before taking his place at the Chancellor¡¯s side.


    Feeling a familiar flash of irritation at his father for not ever having bothered to learn, Az sat back down and watched Diago¡¯s long fingers spell out what his father said.


    ¡°You have been my greatest disappointment,¡± the Chancellor began, using a voice so unnecessarily loud that his son could feel the vibrations through the table. ¡°But I have been patient. You were lucky to be born into this station. I have spared no effort or expense in trying to raise you in God¡¯s light. For it is only through this light that the dark can be eliminated.¡± He paused here and made a cross over his forehead with two fingers.


    ¡°I have been a most generous father, providing the best for you even with your physical shortcomings and spiritual¡­ tresspasses.¡±


    Az stared unmoving, already certain where these words were leading and willing the tears to stay back until the lecture was finished. He felt that horrible sense - his so-called gifts- knotted inside him like a constant ache; an itch that he must never scratch. He cast all his hate and anger inward at it, wishing he could tear it out of himself. Wishing he could destroy it.


    Diago, frowning openly at the words the chancellor spoke, looked down at his own feet. Az thought he spotted tears in his interpreter¡¯s eyes before they disappeared beneath long, dark lashes.


    The Chancellor continued, his face full of affected sorrow. ¡°But yours is a soul that seems determined to the wastes.¡± He stood then, adopting the regal stance he often used at criminal hearings. Hands clasped behind his broad back, chest forward proudly. ¡°And despite all of my best attempts and fatherly discipline, my most hallowed Advisor has determined that your presence here is an affront we can no longer sustain.¡±


    Diago¡¯s hands fell away in shock, and Az turned to read his father¡¯s lips. ¡°I simply cannot afford the risk to my authority. So we¡¯ve made a decision.¡±


    We, Az thought in disbelief. Who is we?. He raised his hands to start arguing the point but just then two Armsmen entered, flanking his father. Diago backed up a few steps, looking positively horrified now.


    ¡°Goodbye, son. Go knowing you¡¯re doing a noble thing for this family, by leaving it.¡±


    The Armsmen marched around the table and each seized one of the boy¡¯s arms. Absolutely sick with fear and hurt, Azrael didn¡¯t even think to put up a fight as they frog-marched him from the room. He looked once over his shoulder and saw Diago, mouth hanging open, staring after him.


    The Chancellor didn¡¯t even watch. He waited until his son had disappeared, then dismissed the interpreter and sat back down to finish his meal. He felt lighter than he had in ages.


    Azrael was led down the corridor across the floor of their estate, passing only housemaids and two of the Chancellor¡¯s personal guard detail. The Armsmen hurrying him along weren¡¯t gentle, but he couldn¡¯t have told them if they were hurting him anyhow.


    Pulled along at a half-walk, half-run down a maze of hallways, Az finally let himself cry. The familiar walls and paintings blurred and cleared with each tearful blink. This estate, however coldly he was treated, had been his only home. Trying to imagine life elsewhere filled him with the sort of nameless dread that young children often feel in the dark. He had no idea if people in the outside world could even sign, or if they knew of deafness at all.


    The rich carpeted halls became plain and utilitarian as the Armsmen left the living areas of the estate, their captive lost in a fearful imagining of a world where he couldn¡¯t communicate at all. When they finally stopped and he snapped out of it long enough to look around, he realized he had no idea where they were. Despite having explored much of the massive estate in his free time, there were still countless off-limits areas where children weren¡¯t allowed, and which Azrael had never dared visit.


    One of his captors briefly let go of the vice-grip on the boy¡¯s elbow to heave open a large door that was set into a plain stone wall. Cold air rushed by, full of the smells of mold and damp. The sour taste in the air was one of secrets, of deceit. Azrael knew these smells from his father¡¯s politicking ¡®friends¡¯ (behind their back they were always sycophant morons when the Chancellor spoke of them).


    ¡°Go,¡± barked the Armsman who had gotten the door. The other one, still holding tight to Azrael¡¯s arm, shoved forward. They stepped into a windowless tunnel barely wide enough for two of them to stand shoulder to shoulder. The floor was damp stone and sloped slightly downward. Straw had been scattered around sparsely in a feeble attempt to offset some of the moisture.


    The tunnel went on for so long that Azrael thought they must be miles underground. Even with the lanterns that were hung at intervals, the darkness seemed to grow thicker as they descended. The temperature dropped, too, though the air stayed just as stagnant. Then, finally, when fear had faded to a resigned boredom, the tunnel leveled out and widened before them. The armsmen pulled Azrael to a stop once more.


    Here another door swung open, scarcely visible in the darkness, and daylight flooded in. After a long second blinking blindly in effort to speed along his eyes adjusting to the change, Azrael gasped. He knew the man in the doorway: It was the unmistakable stooped form of his oldest tutor, Gregyir. And, beyond him, an unfamiliar grimey stretch of docks.


    Blinking up at Gregyir¡¯s familiar dour face, Az signed furiously. Help! He gestured, straining against his captors in order to bring his hands closer together. Help me! He signed again. Relief and hope made him dizzy and so emotional that he started crying again.


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    Gregyir looked only at the Armsmen and waved them through the door, ignoring Azrael¡¯s increasingly desperate signs. The men must have asked something, but Azrael couldn¡¯t see their lips to catch what it was. He only read Gregyir¡¯s reply of ¡°it¡¯s just there,¡± which was punctuated by gesturing to a carriage pulled up to the left.


    The Armsmen nodded curtly and pulled Az toward the waiting wagon as he tried one final time to sign. Please! He wished in that moment that he could scream instead. He tried to make a noise, any noise, but the old tutor didn¡¯t so much as glance in his direction.


    Azrael, staring in disbelief, was jerked forward by his captors so violently that he stumbled and nearly fell. This earned him a painful thump in the back by way of one of his captors. They shoved him into the open carriage door face-first, and when he had recovered enough to get up and turn around Gregyir was standing there instead.


    He stared down at Azrael, a lock of his salt-and-pepper hair hanging over one eye. There was no kindness, no shred of guilt or even familiarity in that look. The tutor who had led him patiently through so many lessons merely nodded once and slammed the door. Azrael, plunged once more into near-darkness, sobbed.


    His father rejecting him hurt, but it hadn¡¯t been entirely surprising. He had, on some level, seen it coming his whole life. But Gregyir? He just couldn¡¯t understand that. He¡¯d liked Gregyir.  At times in his young life he had even entertained daydreams of a life where his father was not his father at all, and Gregyir was instead. Those dreams had gotten him through some dark days. But even that boyish fancy had been a lie.


    A vast sense of loneliness yawned inside Azrael as the wagon began to move with a jolt. There was no anger there, as he in his child-mind struggled to ascribe blame to the adults. He felt hatred only towards himself. He was bad, he was wrong, he was something to be discarded. The dark thoughts numbed him like a salve, and he used that numbness to cover up the growing feel of that other thing ¨C that gift ¨C that roiled in his chest. He wouldn¡¯t give in to that, wouldn¡¯t be even more bad by letting it out.


    After awhile he laid on the floor into an uneasy doze. The worst of the emotions had dulled out by then and their absence felt strangely empty, but the cold apathy was a relief. There was only the dark, the creak of wheels, and the cold damp of wood beneath him.


    Endless minutes passed as Azrael laid there drifting in and out of sleep. A small vent near the ceiling was the only source of air and light, and as the wagon moved tiny slivers of light were cast upon the other side of the wagon wall. He watched those lights dance by, losing sense of time entirely.


    Sunset had just begun to fade the light out entirely when the wagon stopped so suddenly that Azrael was thrown forward. His shoulder painfully struck the corner of one of the wagon¡¯s benches. Rubbing at what he was sure would be a nasty bruise later, he climbed up on the seat that he¡¯d struck and peered out through the vent.


    A young boy was standing in the road, arms out wide, dangerously close to the hooves of the wagonhorse, which was rearing in surprise. A driver hopped down and ran to get the beast under control but still the boy didn¡¯t budge.


    Then a woman came into view and ran at the boy, her face hidden by a cowl. She grabbed the boy¡¯s shoulders and he pulled away, staring daggers at her and screaming something. Az squinted, but couldn¡¯t make the words out in the dusk¡¯s failing light.


    The woman turned to look directly at Azrael then, startling him backwards. He sat back down on the floor, heart pounding, wondering what was going on. What he¡¯d seen left more questions than it did answers, but he could sense a discordant tang of confusion in the air. This hadn¡¯t been a part of his kidnapper¡¯s plan. And that woman¡ª A terrifying thrum of something had flashed through his mind when she looked at him. It woke up that shadowy mass in his chest that he worked so hard to contain and made it flare up.


    A few tense moments passed and light flooded the cramped cabin. The hooded woman had pulled the door open and stood sillhouetted where not long ago Gregyir had stood. Unlike the apathetic gaze of Azrael¡¯s former tutor, however, this woman glared in open fury at the boy huddled on the floor. Wordlessly she stepped into the cabin, bringing darkness in behind her as she closed the door.


    They stared at each other in the half-darkness as their eyes adjusted, Az¡¯s black ones wide as saucers and hers narrowed still in anger. The wagon started forward again with a lurch, and Az would have hit his head once more if not for the woman grabbing his shirt just in time to hold him steady against the sudden motion.


    She let go just as quickly, and though no recognition showed in her face when Az signed thank you, she nodded anyways and at long last took those rage-filled eyes off of him. The wagon bumping along beneath them was the only movement for the remainder of the journey.


    Azrael was sound asleep on the floor when another stop, this one smoother by far, woke him up. The door opened again almost before they had completely stopped moving and the strange woman hopped down from her seat. She took his arm the way the Armsmen had, but a great deal more gently. His legs were weak from so long spent traveling in such cramped quarters, and he might have fallen down in his attempt to exit had it not been for that gentle hand on his arm assisting him.


    Outside, the docks and the harbor were nowhere to be seen. They were in a wood, instead, the trees all bare for winter, and the cloudless sky was lit by a beautiful orange and yellow sunset. Az, looking around, caught something glinting at his strange travel companion¡¯s hip. It was the hilt of some great blade.


    All the gratitude he had felt towards the woman¡¯s kindness left him in a rush, replaced by a realization as steely and cold as the blade she wore. He felt a hysterical smile spreading on his face at the irony of it.


    Assasination. His father¡¯s favorite political tool. Azrael thought of all of the people, all the so-called friends of his father who had run afoul of him and subsequently met their fates at the end of a blade or the bottom of a poisoned glass. The myriad oh-so-convenient deaths that the chancellor had paid for. Each one as a move in a game of political chess ¡ª calculated, precise.


    All while his deaf-mute son watched in horror. Watched yet did nothing because some secret part of him had always hoped at gaining the man¡¯s favor. So Azrael had fawned, just as all of those poor souls whose deaths his father funded had. Yet he hadn¡¯t considered that he himself could also be slain as they had. He was too silly, too childish to have seen coming what now seemed the most obvious ending.


    He felt hollowed out by the day¡¯s events, in light of this realization, and found he no longer cared much what was going to happen. The strongest emotion he felt was embarrassed amusement at his own stupidity. He stifled the insane laughter that wanted to bubble up in his throat and found he was almost looking forward to the blade. Best let it come quickly, so he could be done with it.


    The path he was led down was barely distinguishable from the surrounding woods, but his latest captor followed it confidently, hardly stopping to help him up whenever he stumbled on one of the many roots and rocks that the winter carpet of dead leaves disguised from view.


    They eventually came to a clearing bordered on the far end by a patch of muddly wetland. In the flattest spot of dry ground three Armsmen were sat near a tent. They spotted the two approaching and stood up, the shortest one holding out a hand in greeting. The woman waved back, then reached for her blade.


    This was it. Az¡¯s adrenaline kicked back in as he was led to a stop a few paces from the Armsmen. The woman ¨C his assasin, he supposed¡ª had paused with her blade half-drawn. She glanced down at Az, some strange emotion he wasn¡¯t yet familiar with filling her expression.


    He met her gaze, trying to be brave despite the fact that his entire body was trembling with fear. Then all at once he was flying backwards and the assasin was making a mad rush at the Armsmen, her blade glinting. The air left Azrael¡¯s lungs in a painful whoosh as he hit the ground. He scrambled to his belly, gasping for breath, and saw that the Armsmen had been fallen upon so quickly that only one of the three of them had had time to draw his own sword. In quick seconds, they were all dead.


    The assasin strode back towards him, wiping blood from her blade and sheathing it before offering him her hand. When he didn¡¯t immediately take it, she clumsily gesticulated friend. Azrael was dumbfounded, but took the offered hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. She turned away suddenly, looking intently at the treeline.


    Az brushed dirt from his clothes without taking his eyes off her. He felt the vibrations of hoofbeats in the near distance long moments before the rider they heralded broke from the woods at a gallop. The assasin relaxed when she saw him.


    The horse was huge, a beastly drafthorse whose sides shown with sweat, and before it had even come to a stop its rider was swinging out of the saddle. Relief made Azrael¡¯s knees weak as he recognized another familiar face. Diago!


    Crying and tripping over his own feet as he rushed forward, Az signed furiously at the man. Diago nodded, his face pale and unusually stressed, and caught the boy in a big hug, rocking him back and forth as if he were still a toddler.


    Azrael felt the vibrations as Diago spoke to the woman, a soothing judder where his cheek pressed against the man¡¯s chest. His relief was so great that he cried again, shamelessly, losing himself in the knowledge that he wasn¡¯t alone after all. Someone, despite everything, was still on his side.