Bron stops us as we turn a corner. “We’ll have to go back around.”
A mass of broken wood, brick, vehicle, and other debris rises like a wall two blocks ahead. It is not a result of the explosion. It is manmade, with men standing on top, meat knives in their hands.
Bron tries to herd me back the way we came. I resist. “The paths are blocked that way too. We’ll go over.”
“You don’t know what these men want.”
“Not yet.” I start forward.
“They built that wall for a reason,” Nyasha says.
The men spot us. There are five of them, and they come alive as I approach. One is obviously the leader. He wears a suit and tie, almost spotless, while the others wear dirty pants and button-up shirts. This was a wealthier part of town. The amount of shattered glass is staggering.
“Do you worship Elthor?” the leader calls.
I expected any number of demands and questions, but I did not expect this.
“I worship no one.”
“Then you are a fool.”
The words enrage me. Like a dagger, they cut me because they are false and untrue. And they touch me upon a sore spot because, despite the lie, I fear that I am a fool in ways the man cannot possibly understand.
“A fool? I have changed the world. My guidance lifted men out of poverty. My pursuits delivered power to the hands of the people. I–I, myself–confounded men far more intelligent than you could hope to be. What is this, a wall? It’s a monument to a world without me. You’ll die in filth and darkness without me. What is Elthor? A statue? A fairy tale?”
“He is the bringer of magic.” The leader is trembling. His words are powerful, deeply believed. He has transformed his anger into eloquence. “He gave the gift of magic to men, to Thyr and Yeva, to our ancestors.”
“And now–poof!–he’s taken it away. How nice. I’d like to spit in his face.”
I glance at Bron, who waits at my side now, warning him to stay out of it. He’ll keep Nyasha leashed, too.
“The Cataclysm was a warning. He is angry with us. We have forgotten him and replaced him with men. The Kyzers went too far, claiming to be gods. We must return to true worship.”
I want to keep talking with this man for hours. His words fall black and spiteful in my soul, and I relish them. I want to spar with him; I want to vivisect his beliefs until he forsakes everything he builds his life upon. And I will be happy.
“He demolished the entire world for one family? Is that what you believe?”
“Thyrion ruled the world and the Kyzers ruled Thyrion. No more. We will purge the unbelievers and rebuild in the power of Elthor’s might, unified and loyal.”
“And Dracon?”
“He is a pawn of the Kyzers and must be destroyed.”
“And us?”
“If you persist in your unbelief, your bodies will join the earth.”
Bron grabs my shoulder. “We must go.”
I shake him off. “I persist,” I say. “Nothing can convince me of a supreme being. If he exists, he maimed me. He murdered me. He slayed the world. No–no, never.” I grin madly. “Come down and get me.”
Bron’s arms are around my waist. He lifts me, and I scream, pounding him. I crane to see the man upon the wall. He motions, and one of his fellows hurls a spear at us. It is crudely made, a knife tied to a stick. It has no chance of reaching us. I laugh. I am sick with triumph. What fools! They have no weapons, no organization, just a lie, a belief they cling to because they must.
What sad, pitiful people.
I finally recover my senses. My exuberance is fast fading. “Let me down,” I say irritably, clawing at Bron with my good hand. I try to kick him where it hurts with my prosthetic leg, but I cannot manage the angle. “Down, now!”
He obeys. In the end, he always obeys.
“Let’s go,” I say. “We’re wasting time.”
I replay the incident in my head, savoring the man’s absurd words. We do not have this trouble in Jalseion. We have moved beyond mythology. A few among the Select have religious leanings, but they are based in philosophy and so-called spiritual aspects of the quantifiable world. I do not talk of the masses, of course. They have always been more superstitious than the intelligentsia. I have read the studies.
In less than an hour, I am proved right.
“Is it impossible for Elthor to exist?” Bron asks.
I do not even bother answering him.
“Papa always said the priests were corrupt,” Nyasha says. “The state supports them. They are politicians and government workers, that’s all. High Priest Pelag was a mouthpiece for Thorynn, that’s what Papa said, leading people astray. It’s just another way of controlling people.” And she looks at me. What does she know of Jalseion? Nothing.
“She’s right, Bron,” I say. “Even you can’t believe those men were sane.”
“Not those men.” He turns his head, just a bit, as if thoughts flow better at that angle.
“But?”
“You were healed, Calea.”
“I told you. It was the effect of residual magic.”
“The steps were there. Why should they be there?”
“They didn’t appear for us. They were always there. We just re-discovered them.”
He is shaking his head now. “My mother believed.”
“Well, then. That settles it. Your mom says and her dad says. I prefer to study things in a bit more detail to discover the truth, but if that’s what works for you….”
Bron stops. I don’t wait for him.
“You don’t know what’s happening either,” he says. “No one does. Isn’t it possible?”
I turn around. “Possible? Yes. True? No. We live and die on our own, Bron. Each one to himself.”
He meets my eyes, and for one of the first times in my life, I see anger there. “That’s not what I believe.”
“What do you believe, Bron? That Elthor founded the most corrupt government on earth and blessed it?”
He does not answer. There is something moving deep within this rock of a man, something fundamental shifting. I am almost afraid of him. Whatever I think of him, I know I am safe when he is near. But if something changes….
“We are not our own,” he says. “I believe that. I’ve chosen that. You know that’s what I’ve chosen.” He takes a deep breath. “Let’s go. We’ve a long way to go.”
* * *
We are near the Central District when we finally settle in for the night. It’s just a corner of a collapsed building, a triangle of space we make by pushing rubble to the side. There’s little light, only what the moon provides. The night rumbles and grumbles, man and animal and rock muttering together. Tomorrow, we reach the Library. Tomorrow, I drown in words, delirious.
Dinner is quiet. We remove to our areas and make the best of it. I lie on my back, stiff, arms at my side, meditating on the continual aches.
I cannot remove the memory from my head. I am in the empty well, and I am dying. I am weak, so weak. I can feel my strength slipping, my blood leaking. I am drifting to everlasting sleep. To nothingness. To the end of all things.
And I am terrified. I have made peace, of sorts, with my arm and leg. But I still have my mind. I still have me. What else is there? If I were to lose even that…. I cannot linger on it.
I remember thinking that night that I would sell the world, all of it, everyone in it, just to stay alive.
But why? What use am I? I remember what I told Bron, because I had no one else to tell. “So little,” I confessed. “So useless.”
Less now. Utterly useless.
I’m not worth the air I breathe. But I will take it, squeeze my lungs full of it, and so damn myself ever more.
I am beyond sleep and I am beyond tears.
And so the night passes.
Don't miss a single word of stories as they are published! You'll also receive first notice of special sales and behind-the-scenes information.