Free - By Audie Jinks

One Dreams of Revenge: Burn the World
ROUGH DRAFT
By Audie Jinks, 2012
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2 1. The Foolish One Eats A Lacking
-- The Country and City of Crisa (22 Years Until Humanity Is Culled) --
Bitterness curls over the Fox’s tongue.
It tastes of the lacking.
The lacking is a curious condition. Why there are one or two humans born
every few generations that possess only half a soul, and how those
humans survive with such a pathetic presence, is a mystery that worries
the Fox’s fellow spirits, the Unseen, with the lacking’s unpredictable
nature.
The Fox however, finds the lacking amusing rather than troubling. It is an
opportunity for direct influence over humans.
For chaos.
Never has a Fox had the chance to take advantage. Its kin will be jealous.
The Fox wisps between buildings and people, leaping toward the top level
of the city, up where the population ignores shrines and duty. There the
source of the lacking squalls in anger. A male child, it dislikes its birth, the
event too violent an introduction to the world outside the womb. Shrieks
and sobs tickle at the Fox.
Trembling, the Fox glides closer to the child. Licks the air and grins.
The child’s partial soul is still open, receptive, but humans are fickle
creatures. Malleability won’t last long.
The Fox sets to work.
Worming between the baby’s ribs, the Fox wriggles deep into the fragile
body, shoving into the void created by the lacking, stretching and
pushing until the lacking is swallowed by the Fox’s presence.
It’s not until the Fox is comfortable that its mistake becomes apparent.
The half-soul is too young, too unaware and incapable of acknowledging
the Fox. The child cannot speak of Names or birthrights and without a
Naming the Fox is powerless.
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3 Trapped.
Growling, the Fox nips at the human’s soul.
The child wails louder.
The Fox screeches.
Both their cries go unanswered. 2. Apathy Is Not A Virtue
-- Crisa’s Basement (14 Years Until Humanity Is Culled) --
I slice through this child as easily as the first, twisting my knife deep and
clean. She doesn't suffer.
Suffering is the way of life in Crisa's Basement; the cries of hundreds are
silent to those who live on the upper levels, to those who are graced with
light and fresh air. Their willful ignorance sickens me.
I let the body crumple at my feet.
The last child, no older than eight, stands wide-eyed and silent. His cheek
is supple under my touch.
"What's your Name, boy?"
I don't expect an answer. We live in a world where Names are binding,
acting as an inheritance of power and worth. In Crisa only those living in
light are thought to have the right to one. Asking is a cruel tease, a way of
buying time until I have to kill him, procrastinating the end of my
assignment.
Why the Unseen have demanded the disposal of lost children I don't
know.
Nor do I care.
The Wolf that makes up half my soul howls.
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4 My apathy angers it. I don't need the Wolf's advice for this assignment, so I
beat it into silence, an easy task when dealing with an Unseen as young
as the Wolf, the spirit a mere pup in terms of ability.
The boy stares at my hair where it sways in front of his face, weak light that
filters down through the refuse holes of the upper level teasing at his
delicate features. His pale gray eyes stir a memory within me but it is too
distant to recall clearly.
He replies, "Whatever you want it to be."
And there it is, curling around his leg, the shadow of a fox's tail. Pointed
ears perk up out of his matted hair as well. They swivel around, ghost ears
tracking the sounds of darkness.
The Wolf rumbles in recognition, greeting the Fox.
I smile as I answer the child, "Is that so? I'll call you Junah then, there's truth
in that."
I straighten to check the Fox from a different angle. The child begins
shaking, unaware that he has a tail that shakes too. He whispers, "Why?"
"Why did I kill them?" It's a pointless question. I shrug and give him my
favorite lie, to see if he can handle it. "I was bored."
Junah doesn't react. I take this as a good sign until I realize that I may
have misunderstood his inquiry. I lean over him, to better watch the Fox.
"Or, perhaps you're wondering why I haven't killed you?"
The Wolf is pacing now, wondering why I haven't declared the Fox our
friend and bundled him up for travel. I hush it again.
I've decided I don't want this pretty child to die just yet. Nor do I want him
to live our life, though I've already bound him through his Naming. Perhaps
a foolish choice. It is only a partial Naming however, the other half of his
soul still waiting for its title.
The Fox will have to keep waiting.
I cup Junah's fragile chin, painting his skin with the crimson that stains my
slick gloves. The color suits him.
I say, "It's best if you don't question it."
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5 With that I release him and walk away, leaving the boy and the Fox alive
in the darkness and my assignment incomplete.
3. The Forgotten Child
-- Crisa’s Basement (One Year Until Humanity Is Culled) --
Junah chuckles as the second punch rattles his chin.
His head snaps to the side, a third blow landing across his left brow. Head
twisted at a painful angle; Junah’s chuckles turn into huffs of laughter.
Liquid seeps from the cut on his forehead to collect in his eyelashes. One
plump drop of red falls from their tips.
Junah doesn’t blink. He growls up at Hame.
It’s difficult to see the large kid standing over him—the fight happening
just beyond the light of dusk that creeps under the edge of the first level
and into the Basement—but feet knock against either side of Junah’s
waist and one of Hame’s hands is splayed open and pressing down on
Junah’s bare chest. The hand’s wandering nature causes Junah to doubt
the implied intent.
Vision a useless sense to Basement dwellers, the level’s perpetual darkness
making eyes an accessory rather than a necessity, Junah cocks his head,
relying on his ears to catch the knowledge contained in sounds.
Hame’s breathing is harsh and shallow, the rhythm suggesting interest in
more than a fight, but lung disease is too common to rule out as an
explanation. Arching his spine off the muddy ground, Junah wiggles under
Hame’s palm. A sharp inhale from above and the hand slides down his
torso to the band of his petticoat, the action confirming Junah’s
suspicions. He wonders if Hame is healthy enough to follow the desire
through. “Aren’t I a bit old for you, kid?”
He earns another blow for the tease.
Hame snarls, “Bloody afama. Just ‘cause you’re grown and have a Name,
don’t make you better than us.”
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6 Three others chime in, each voice as forgettable as Junah’s last bowel
movement.
Junah spits out a thick mix of blood and spittle. The lingering copper taste
pokes at the rage that rots his gut. He knows the emotion isn’t his, knows
that his anger doesn’t burn so harsh, but his mind balks at the memories of
dark hair and a darker smile that the implication conjures.
Shuddering, Junah says, “Yes, it does.”
He jerks his chin toward the other boys watching the fight. “Than them
anyways. You’ve got a Name too, Hame.”
“I ain’t hame! You don’t have the right to Name anyone.”
Junah shrugs. “The Unseen must think so. Seem ‘useless’ to me.”
The smallest observer speaks, shrill voice grating on Junah’s nerves.
“I don’t believe he really got a Name. What Seer would have bothered
with an orphan? Wouldn’t of if you ask me. Talkin’ to the Unseen’s a mess
of trouble for them to go through for a mud rat. Too much to give a
proper Name at any rate. Maybe a forged one, if you had enough coin,”
the kid snickers, ”or a sweet enough mouth.”
The cadence of the speaker’s words identifies him as the same high-strung
paita that hits his knees for any mud rat with moldy bread to pay.
Junah murmurs, “If that’s all it takes then what’s your Name?”
Knuckles meet his face, the blow skimming to the side. Junah grits his
teeth. He can feel bruises forming along his jaw, adding to the collection
that already litters his body. Having lived past his twentieth year, longer
than most born to the Basement, Junah should be a better fighter, but
he’s always preferred flight and survival to physical encounters. He should
have run when he first heard Hame approach.
He struggles against the weight of his petticoat, trying to bring his knees
between his chest and Hame’s fist but the torn material is soaked through
with the stale water that Crisa’s rainy season dumps into the Basement. It’s
tempting to shed the petticoat, its fabric doing little more than tangling
around his legs and drag over the thin, raw skin of his thighs when he tries
to lift them but it’s his last piece of protection against the elements.
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7 The petticoat jerks against an infected scrape and he stops moving with a
hiss.
Blood wells in his mouth as punches begin to rain down. Though as starved
and riddled with sickness as the rest of them, Hame can deliver a beating.
Junah raises his arms to fend off the worst of the blows. Sensing the falling
of his defenses, the others lurch forward, eager to have their taste of the
fun.
The sound of mud sucking around advancing feet ignites panic. Junah
pops a leg out toward Hame. His shin catches the boy around the groin
and the impact sends Hame jerking backward with a shout.
Junah rolls to his feet. Slipping through the mud, he rushes for where
experience tells him the nearest pillar is located. His knuckles crash against
metal and he pauses, breathing deep before pushing off the ground. He
leaps vertical to cling a few yards up.
Junah doesn’t bother to question the ease in which he scurries up the
column of metal or the nagging pressure that twists in his chest as he
does. He focuses on the pillar in his grip.
The metal’s singular network of grooves and pockmarks signal to his hands
that it’s the route leading behind the soldier barracks on the first level to
the viewing box on the second. From there it’s a simple scamper to the
shrines and relative safety.
Fingertips clinging to faint handholds, Junah winds his way up.
Up.
4. The Cat’s Pet
-- Outside Crisa, Same Day --
Foxes dart around the legs of Rye's horse, Trip, as he rides toward the ramp
that leads to Crisa's North Door. He ignores the yipping flashes of red the
best he can, gaze trained forward between the points of Trip's curved
ears. The horse appears undisturbed by the wispy animals dancing under
and around them.
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8 Grass soggy with rain remains unmarked as fox paws skim over the
ground.
Rye abandons his feigned ignorance to stare at the animals. Fists
clenching, he curses. The figures remain insubstantial flickers on the fringe
of his vision.
His cat-soul hisses.
Why he’s seeing foxes—always small, delicate and crimson, though at
times covered in more black feathers and lace than fur—he convinces
himself he doesn't care—convinces himself that they are a product of
traveling too long. Glaring at Trip's head, he rubs his eyes until the foxes
disappear.
The ramp rises before him, massive enough to hold carriages five across,
arching away in a bridge made of pearl marble inlaid with grated metal.
Trip's hooves clatter over the mix of materials. The studs in his shoes catch
on the grates with hitching jerks.
Rye sighs.
He drops out of the saddle. Trip doesn’t pause in his strides and Rye has to
jog to reach the horse’s head. Now out of danger of falling from the
saddle should Trip stumble to his knees, Rye reviews his assignment.
He frowns.
As always, the Unseen have failed to provide him with illuminating
information, instead the dose of knowing that the Cat gifts him with is
limited to an impression of a corrupt Seer and a list of Names. It is through
past experience and his natural inclinations that he understands what he
is to do once he manages to puzzle out the “whom” and “where” of the
assignment. His fingers itch, twitching at his sides as he wonders if he will
be sliding them over a scroll tube, or if the list is plain parchment. He
prefers scrolls for ease of theft, but parchment has a more satisfying
texture. Lost in his musing, Rye lets his gaze wander over the city structure.
Settling on the bottom edge of Crisa, where the shadows of the Basement
leak between marble and metal pillars to stain the light of day, Rye spies a
guard unit patrolling a path along the Basement’s perimeter, ensuring that
what is hidden in its depths stays so.
The sight fails to comfort.
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9 As they crest the ramp the third-level of Crisa, the Greenhouse, comes
into view in the west. The tempered glass structures where the city’s elitist
population thrives throw back a reflection of sunlight that blinds those who
gaze upon it for too long. Even after four years exiled, there’s a hollow
ache in his chest that grows at the sight of his former home.
Rye shivers.
The Cat twitches its tail.
The ramp is crowded with afternoon traffic. Hansom cabs and broughams
rush to be first at the Door, heedless of the people that struggle to avoid
falling under their wheels, or the farmer’s wagons too slow to dart out of
their way. A town coach manages to lead the lot, by virtue of its noble
owner. Rye doesn’t recognize the coat of arms on the door but he stays
on the fringes nonetheless, preferring to prowl the edges than risk a
familiar face. Flowing around street sweepers and news barkers, he
crosses into the shade of the North Door.
Trip's presence catches the attention of a door guard and the man
stomps forward. "You have a permit for that animal?"
It takes a conscious effort not to react to the guard’s brusque manner the
way his upbringing trained him.
Irritation results in a survey of the guard’s immediate qualities to catalog
and memorize for future needs. The man’s almond-shaped eyes suggest
his heritage is one of the Northeastern cultures. Perhaps he is a Hafati, a
people indigenous to Crisa as well as the Hafatsu mountain range that
forms its eastern border. They are notorious for their uncompromising
nature.
However, the man carries greater heft than Rye’s mentor, Nih’o, who,
standing a scant inch above Rye’s slight height and inhabiting as much
space as a willow sapling, is considered substantial for a Hafati. Short,
slender statures are far more common, a byproduct of their mining-based
livelihood. Instead, Naime, a warrior country further north, is the most likely
source for the guard’s heritage.
A grunt and a frown from the Door Guard redirect Rye’s attention.
Regardless of exact heritage, Nih’o’s placid temperament isn’t standard
for either people.
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10 Rye tries a smile to soften the atmosphere.
"Of course." He tugs a yellow slip of paper from the inside pocket of his
waistcoat, unfolding it so the guard can identify the signature proclaiming
his right to house a private horse in the city. Nih’o’s gift of forgery is fresh,
sharp, and for that Rye’s grateful. The restrictions on horses within the city
are more than a nuisance when quick departures are required.
Nih’o’s skills are solid but the guard lingers over the slip none-the-less.
Standing straighter, Rye studies the careful guard in a glance. Rough
edges and serviceable clothes, he isn’t remarkable save for the tiny set of
intertwined bronze and copper gears pinned to his shirt lapel.
The pin is the mark of a mechanical engineer. So called by the educated.
Those who believe the engineers to be those of magic and insanity know
the clannish profession as “tinkers.” Rye keeps company with such
ignorance these days.
The tinker is from one of the older clans to be wearing such a delicate
decoration. It doesn’t track that he would choose Door Guard over family
business. It isn’t their way, respectability over loyalty.
Rye’s hands fidget at his sides, curiosity building to a light hum that sparks
along his spine. He opens his mouth. Just one question and he can bury
the rest.
The Cat isn’t interested in minor distractions and smacks claws against his
soul.
Sharp pain rings through Rye’s chest. He sucks in a breath though he
manages to turn the grimace into a grin when the guard looks up with
narrow eyes trained on the crumbling edges of Rye’s smile.
Rye resists the urge to clear his throat. He says, “Can I be off, then?”
The guard hands the permit back with a grunt. "Just see you follow the
laws and keep him off the upper levels. Don't need his filth falling down on
me."
Trip snorts, ears lying flat.
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11 Rye nods at the man and steps up to press his shoulder against Trip's neck,
forcing the horse away from the guard. As he does, he slides fingertips
along the man’s belt. It’s a casual touch, impulsive, and, though satisfying
in its nature, it should be fruitless in rewards: few men carry bills tucked in
their belts. But his fingers graze over the cool metal of a key and his
heartbeat pulses in their tips. The key is slender, delicate, the leather tab it
hangs from soft with wrinkles. Without considering the action further, he
pulls the tab from around the button that secures it to the guard’s belt.
The key passes over Rye’s palm and under his embroidered shirt cuff as he
replies, “A gentleman always obeys the laws.”
The guard regards him with scorn, “I never assume such things.”
Muttering, Rye steps through the oversized marble arch that forms the city
entrance. “Yes, because that would be imprudent.”
He lets his irritation drive him into the city proper with Trip tense beside him.
They slow a few yards in where the ramp turns into a platform that houses
the transport station.
Here the carriages and wagons are divided into groups consisting of
goods and citizens, orderly lines flowing into change lanes where the
contents of each vehicle will be removed, cataloged by a station official
and transferred to a smaller, more agile form of transport: hand carts and
trolleys for the merchandise, rickshaws for those wealthy enough to afford
staying off their feet. Rye continues through the station to the far end
where the platform branches off into wide catwalks. There he pauses.
Rickshaws rattle pass Rye, pulled by street urchins and shopkeepers’
children, their bouncing passengers’ expressions a mix of scowls and
smugness. Rye turns his back against the glances they give him, his
possession of a private horse drawing their skeptical gazes. He pats Trip’s
neck and purrs low notes into one twitching ear.
Satisfied once Trip drops his head and shakes out his mane, Rye resumes
moving through the city toward the Southern Prefecture. Built from the
same material as the ramp, the catwalks are a series of minuscule arcs
that run between building platforms and courtyard entrances, their ebbs
subtle enough to be ignored by those without sharpened senses.
It will take hours to reach the south of Crisa, the city’s sprawl filling the
country’s borders. As they walk, Rye focuses on blocking out the city noise
that tears at the Cat’s delicate hearing. He drifts to trace a hand over the
hip-high wall that runs on either side of the catwalk.
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12 Risking vertigo, he stares down at the blackness of the Basement.
Even with the Cat’s influence it’s difficult to spy Crisa's slums from his
vantage point hundreds of feet up. The distance creates a sense of
security and deniability.
As if the city is disconnected from what festers beneath it.
A flash of crimson leaps out of the Basement with a cry that goes unheard
by all but him. Rye shoves his hands deep into his pockets, refusing to
acknowledge the fox nipping at his heels.
5. Naming The Foolish One
-- Crisa’s First Level --
Paper lanterns illuminate the catwalk, the light from their burning oil
seeping through the colored paper to tint the air around shop doors.
Citizens mill about with hushed voices, the first level falling into strained
silence as the sun disappears from between the gaps in the level above.
Comprised of shops, stables, barracks, and more questionable
establishments, Crisa abandons the area for the warmth of the housing
and shrine districts on the second level the moment dusk leaves the city.
Rye settles Trip into a stall. The horse isn’t pleased with being confined,
even less so with the scant bedding provided. He paws at the floor.
Rye pulls off saddle and bridle then grabs a cloth from his saddle pack to
wipe down the horse. Trip could use a full bath but that will have to wait
until they’re out of the city once again. The stables spare as little as a halffilled pail for cleaning animals and Trip much prefers splashing in a river to
a bucket and sponge.
Finished smoothing out Trip’s coat, Rye sheds his own, bundling the
waistcoat into the saddle pack and pulling out his favorite bracers. Sliding
his left hand into the worn leather sleeve, Rye traces over the burnt in
design of bold grooves and swirling details that decorates the outside. The
unpredictable pattern reminds him of Nih’o.
Rye doesn’t bother to remove the guard’s key from his shirtsleeve. Instead,
he tightens the straps on the bracers so they force the key into the skin of
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13 his arm, its weight pressing deep, full and soothing. Rye curls his left hand
into a loose fist and flexes his wrist, smiling as a thin blade snaps out from
its sheath hidden in the layers of leather that form the side of the bracer.
The blade tip points along the side of his knuckles, allowing his punches to
make up for what he lacks in strength with a guarantee of damage,
though he’s fed the blades on flesh but once.
Rye flexes his wrist again. The blade disappears.
Strapping on the other bracer, Rye eyes Trip. The horse snorts at him.
Rye sighs, “Hush now. You know you can’t go upstairs.” He moves to
scratch Trip behind the ears and whispers, “You’re lucky, having an
excuse to stay down here. Wish I didn’t have to get any closer to the top
than this but the damn Cat—“
The Cat scratches at his soul, light and annoying. It stirs up a sense of
restlessness. He can’t identify whether it belongs to him or the spirit. Either
way, the message is clear. “Yes, yes. I’m going.”
Rye gives Trip a parting neck pat. Then, he steps out of the stable and into
the tinted light of lanterns.
Hands in his pockets, where they won’t be tempted to snag trinkets from
innocents, he prowls the catwalk, searching for his favorite staircase to the
second level. His hallucinations have stopped for the moment but the
absence of feathered foxes leaves him with a headache. Rubbing at his
temple, he forgoes trying to puzzle out the significance. The last time he
gave a hallucination more than a passing consideration he learned the
fragility of family ties.
Thankfully, Nih’o’s list of demands does not include life lessons, and so he
can ignore the permanent confusion being a Hunter leaves him in without
the risk of reprimand.
Rye wiggles his fingers in his trouser pockets. The catwalk curves around a
platform full of bakeries. The heavy scent of bread and the sweet tang of
pastries wrap over his shoulders as he crosses onto the platform and into
the narrow alley between the shop buildings. Brick is the preferred
material for buildings on the first level and the blocks of clay are still warm
from the day’s business. Rye savors his breaths as he slinks down the alley,
content to consume the scents in the air and let them turn into taste on his
tongue.
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14 Where the various alleys meet, a spiral staircase stands, rickety and
unused for consistent travel. The city provides larger transport to the upper
levels via ramps fashioned in a similar style to those that lead in and out of
Crisa but since they are solid and wider traffic is worse. Rye doesn’t want
to be near the citizens at the moment. His thoughts are on his task ahead,
mulling over what he should offer at the Cat’s shrine and whom the
corrupt Seer may be.
The staircase sways underneath his tread. He reaches his awareness
toward the Cat and the spirit lightens his steps, gracing him with the speed
and agility to whip up the staircase without disrupting the structure. The
stairs let out behind the viewing box for the soldiers’ practice field. Both
are empty of all but darkness.
He enters the common housing district of the South where the
atmosphere is flush with flutes and bells playing a jittery serenade for the
people socializing across the breezeways and courtyards between
buildings. The sounds of life tug at Rye but the Cat keeps him on track by
increasing the restlessness that drives him forward. Moving toward the
center of the city, it’s seven platforms to the shrines and their gardens.
A door-less gate of trees marks the entrance for the shrines. Passing under
the arch, Rove brushes his fingers over the cluster of dead saplings, their
bark flaking under the pressure of the sinew ties that twist them into place.
There’s an urge to destroy the arch. To rip the binds and release the
voided nature, but the scars laid are too deep to reverse. As his fingers lift
from the gate, he darts his hand out to snap a sinew tie. The gate shivers.
Smiling, Rye strolls through one of the rock gardens to the Hall of Offerings.
Constructed from wood pillars and a slanted clay roof, the hall houses
miniature stone statues, each dedicated to a type of Unseen, identifiable
by either species or talent.
The Cat’s shrine is one of the more regal; built out of bronze and shaped
as a cat sitting back on its haunches, head held high as it judges those
before it. The statue mimics the posture of the first hallucination Rye had,
the first of many that led to the Cat eating his lacking.
Rye scowls at the statue.
“I don’t know why you insist on coming here. Is it to see how empty the
place is, how little the people care? Or do you enjoy hearing of the
corruption of the Seers?” His body tingles and the Cat gifts him with a
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15 dose of knowing. “Tracking progress? What progress? How many more
people think the Unseen a joke?”
The tingling turns into a buzzing that steals his breath and makes his limbs
numb. He gasps out, “Fine, fine, no questions.”
The shrine floor is cold beneath his knees.
Rye dips his head in a bow and brings his hands to press flat in front of the
stone basin that sits before the statue. A brief prayer, in which he thanks
the Unseen for Nih’o and Trip, and begs virtues of guidance for his brother
Theo and sensibility for his sister Aminta. He doesn’t bother with his parents.
Nor with the Cat, who wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.
Instead, for the Cat he places a small token in the basin. Water mutes its
luster but the chunk of alabaster seems to glow with warmth. Though the
Cat was as much present for its acquirement as Rye, the spirit swells with
pleasure inside his chest.
Rye grins.
Letting the shimmer of water over the pretty rock lull him into blankness,
Rye stretches the Cat’s hearing, tilting his head as his ears catch bits of
conversation floating on the breeze. Few visit the shrines on a regular
basis, instead preferring to wait until their sorrows have stacked into
unsteady piles before bringing themselves to the mercy of the Unseen.
Even then, the prayers are barters and demands, not humility and
deference.
Filtering through the minimal conversations taking place in the vicinity, Rye
focuses in on a female. Located on his right in the main sanctuary, he
can’t begin to see her but his mind draws the picture well enough from
her words. She’s attempting to appeal to a Seer, using physical bribery
from the infliction of her voice. It’s routine for cheating spouses to assure
that the Seers will Name their bastard children in an acceptable manner,
continuing the “purity” of bloodlines on top of a foundation of lies.
The practice makes Rye wonder if his father is right to doubt the purity of
their family. It would explain why Rye doesn’t match his siblings or parents
in looks or nature. He traces the outline of his eyelids, the path mirroring
that of Nih’o’s and the door guard’s.
The relief in the female’s voice distracts Rye back to his task; this is likely
the Seer he is meant to expose.
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16 The Cat’s hearing fails to continue receiving information; so Rye gives the
statue and basin one last dip of his head and pads down the length of
the hall to the wall of the sanctuary. The wall is made of a thin wood and
Rye no longer needs the Cat’s hearing to know what’s happening on the
other side. Clothing rustles and grunts begin, the Seer sounding too eager
for payment to satisfy more than his own passing need.
He can’t imagine his mother, the revered Lady Inara, subjecting herself to
a strange man’s touch. She barely allows his father a relationship. Waiting
for the Cat to bestow more knowing and confirm that this Seer is the one
with the list, he’s contemplating the likelihood that his father is wrong
about his mother when a bundle of red steps into view.
The fox walks up to him, calm and focused, gray eyes boring into Rye’s
own. The wisp of animal stops within range and waits. A compulsion to
touch the fox strikes Rye and he’s about to reach out and stroke over its
ears when the animal darts away.
It isn’t his intention to follow the hallucination.
The Cat smirks.
Around the corner of the sanctuary he trails the fox, the animal
disappearing only to reappear a moment later, smaller than before and
curled between the shoulder blades of a man wearing a petticoat.
Stained through, the fabric clings to scarred thighs, the man’s head tilted
as he lies on his stomach, listening to the coupling of the Seer and the
female.
Rye crouches. Focused on the man he eases forward, crawling on hands
and toes. The man isn’t from the city proper. He’s too full of protruding
bone under his sun-starved skin and he smells sour, like confinement and
disease; like the Basement. A desire to chase the intruder away lest he
spread the stench brings Rye closer. He gathers himself on the balls of his
feet and palms, wiggling his body into readiness, sighting the man just
above the fox sleeping on his bony back.
He’s about to pounce and frighten his target into flight when the man’s
head whips around. Pale eyes lock gazes with Rye. The grunts from the
sanctuary cease.
Rye opens his mouth to shoo the man away; “Get away from—“
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17 The tiny fox melts into the man. Extends into his worn body and travels
over the ground, into Rye’s palms where the screech of an angry spirit too
long trapped slices over his nerves.
Words are wrenched from him, the Unseen living in the man demanding
to be acknowledged through their vocalization, “The Fox?”
The man’s eyes widen and next Rye understands he’s on his back, an
overstretched mouth grinning down at him. The voice that slinks out
between bared teeth vibrates along Rye’s bones. “I believe a reward for
my release is in order, little pet.”
The man’s mouth tastes like ash.
The Cat bristles.
Its influence floods Rye’s limbs, snapping his hands toward the Fox’s head.
A fist connects. The Fox jerks away, its eyes rolling as it clutches its head
and slams it into the marble ground. A cry peels from its throat, human in
its terror. There’s a pause in movement, and once more it’s the man
huffing breaths and muttering a litany of confused sounds. His presence is
brief. Head lifting, his eyes go cold, irises darkening as the Fox chuckles.
“My cage is tougher than he looks.”
With that, the two are gone.
The sanctuary door opens at the end opposite Rye. A shout from the Seer
grabs his attention. He doesn’t have time enough to process what’s
happened, leaping to his feet and letting instinct choose his escape path
around the shrines and out of the gardens.
6. Master Undertaker
-- Crisa’s Basement --
Guilt gnaws at Rye.
Darting down the spiral staircase, he doesn’t slow until he reaches the
catwalk that leads to the stable. Sweat collects at his hairline.
It isn’t his fault that he’s Named an Unseen. The whole situation is odd
however; he’s never heard of an Unseen being trapped after eating a
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18 lacking. Though truth told he doesn’t know much about the Unseen or
how the lacking works, despite carrying the Cat for four years. His case
was different; the Cat had forced its Name upon Rye, leaving his soul little
choice but to recognize the spirit. And even if he does now possess the
ability to Name someone through the Cat’s influence, he’s never done so.
Starting with a trapped Fox doesn’t seem a good place; the spirit didn’t
behave altogether sane.
Rye wishes Nih’o were there to guide him.
Not that Nih’o would be concerned. He’d dismiss the event as best
forgotten. But Rye can’t do the same, not without Nih’o there to be
flippant and annoyed at his worry.
Which leaves Rye with one other option for vocalizing his deed and
seeking advice: Haruh, the Master Undertaker.
The Cat growls.
“Shut up.” Rye isn’t in the mood for the Cat’s complaints. The spirit wasn’t
helpful, staying silent throughout what he’s increasingly sure was a large
mistake.
Metal clacks under his boots. His stride a brisk clip, the sound bounces into
his lungs and he matches his breaths to the pace, both slowing as he
settles into the idea of a visit to the Undertaker’s.
An elevator comes into view.
The majority of Crisa’s citizens don’t trust the contraptions. Considered too
risky, the inventions are overlooked, discarded as something to be
ignored. Rye almost feels pity for the tinkers that created the design.
However, the profession’s loss is his to exploit because although the
elevators aren’t built for travel further down than the first level, they’re
perfect for slipping into the Basement.
Running his hand along the catwalk’s wall, he slides into the niche that
houses the contraption. He doesn’t hesitate, relying on the collective
blindness toward the elevators to keep anyone from noting his actions.
Sucking in his stomach and pressing his back flat to the building on the
right, Rye squeezes his body around the metal box that’s meant to be
stood in. Behind the box he grips the framework. There’s room to
maneuver, to shimmy his hips and push up on the frame, sending his legs
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19 into the black of the Basement. He continues pushing, adjusting his hands
until he’s hanging from the bottom of the box.
A cable for the elevator sits in its pulley system to his right. Rye lets go of
the frame with his right hand, swings his legs hard once and hops into
precarious position with a single grip on a pulley wheel. From there he can
see the metal beams that are networked beneath the length of the city,
supporting the platforms. Kicking his legs, his limbs tingle with the Cat’s
influence, fueling his muscles as they stretch and snap tight, sending him
leaping to the nearest beam.
He lands balanced on his toes and palms.
After that he picks his way toward Haruh’s.
Gliding along the beams, his vision is a limited palette made from
reflected light as the city’s glow ventures through the gaps in the level
above. Colors muted and flat, the Basement appears as fuzzy shapes that
are identifiable through experience rather than visual comprehension.
Similar to the function of an animal’s eyes, the effect creates an intimacy
with the Cat that makes Rye uncomfortable. He lengthens his reach to
move quicker over the beams.
It takes him an hour to reach the Undertaker’s.
Dealing within one of the most profitable realms of business, Haruh is
blessed with connections to Crisa's richest patrons, though rumors imply it’s
only through blackmail that he's successful. Rye gives the establishment's
main entrance, with its detailed drawing of a human heart, a wide berth.
He rounds the corner and measures out his paces until he's gone twenty
yards.
Running his fingers over the rough brick, he feels out the ridges that will
lead him upward. The handholds are enough to cling to as he scales the
building toward one of the air vents broken out of the solid wall. He slides
through the narrow glassless window, dropping to the floor beyond
without disturbing the man muttering over a sour corpse.
Rye breathes through his mouth as he skirts around the edge of the room.
Small lanterns made of yellow silk and smelling of cheap sardine oil line
the worktable, their flames glinting over silver surgery utensils, jars of fluid—
clear, amber, and rose—and crumpled parchment covered in illegible
strokes of ink. Bundles of dried herbs hang from the exposed rafters of the
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20 high ceiling. Rye licks his lips as the aroma of the plants mingles with that
of decay, the scent-flavor stirring memories of tangy fear and Nih’o’s
hunting cries.
The Cat arches against his soul, the feathery stroke urging him to continue
investigating. Poking at one half-filled jar on the table, he squints at the
chunks floating inside. Kidneys perhaps.
"The window again?"
Rye jerks his hand back with a hiss and whirls to face Haruh, who's still bent
to his task. Rasping, the man continues. "I expected you sooner."
Rye isn’t sure whether to doubt the statement or not but he decides it isn’t
worth the speculation and replies, "I got distracted."
Haruh clicks his tongue. "Curiosity is a dangerous quality, especially in a
pedigree."
"I'm not--"
"—even covered in dirt and death you have the breeding, Kitten." The
man turns and studies him without further comment. Rye tries not to gape
at the scalpels jammed into the knot of dreadlocks atop Haruh’s head,
but words drop from his lips regardless.
“Why are there--”
“—your inability to resist asking irrelevant questions is why you were exiled,
Kitten. Think you would have learned. I’m surprised Nih’o hasn’t beaten
that out of you yet.” Rye forces his hands steady at his sides, determined
not to fidget as Haruh continues. "And how is my favorite Hunter? I don't
suppose he'll be visiting me anytime soon?"
"It's doubtful."
Rye's response is clipped and he cringes at the annoyance he hears in his
voice. Coming here wasn’t a good idea. It isn’t the Undertaker he needs
to speak to. Haruh heaves a sigh. "Your Wolf is a cruel man."
"He isn't my Wolf." As far as Rye can tell Nih’o doesn't belong to anyone,
least of all him.
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21 "You Hunters are so quick to deny ties. Though I suppose a lack of loyalty is
in the job description." Haruh crosses to the table and begins rifling
through the parchments. Rye tries not to pull away from the man as he
presses into his personal space during his search but the desire runs too
deep. With a huff, he takes a step back toward the window. Haruh
chuckles. "Would you like me to speak to the Cat? I could find out what it
really thinks of you. Maybe convince it to reveal your proper Name?”
“No.”
“Are you—“
“Yes.”
Haruh grins. “Very well. How about something else then? An assignment fit
for the Cat and its pedigree thief.”
“I thought you couldn’t hand out assignments because the Unseen don’t
communicate through you anymore.” Rye scratches nails across a table,
“After all, I’m not the only exile in this room.”
The lanterns dim.
“Perhaps you are not,” Haruh isn’t grinning anymore. “But you are still in
the presence of a Seer, former or otherwise. You would do well to
remember that.”
Folded parchment is tapped against Rye’s knuckles. Fingers twitching, he
snatches the paper and reads its contents. It’s a moment before he can
decipher the smears of ink. His stomach drops. “This is—you can’t be
serious.”
“It’s time you went back, if only to pilfer information.”
“The Unseen…this didn’t come from them did it?” Rye turns inward, to the
Cat and waits for a confirmation. The spirit blinks at him. “Dammit. Is it from
them or is this some sick game of yours?”
“Would it matter?”
It’s an honest question. Rye can’t answer. Images of his home flood his
mind, smells and textures filling in as if he’s been gone for less than a day.
Concern over the Fox forgotten, he stares at Haruh, watching for a sign
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22 that the assignment is another cruel tease of the Undertaker’s. None can
be found in the man’s steady gaze. Rye nods his acceptance.
Turning back to the corpse on his table, Haruh gestures toward the
window.
Dismissed, Rye shoves the parchment with its instructions and familiar
address into his trouser pocket. Stomach still in the pit of his torso, he
crosses to the wall and works his way up to the window. He twists his
shoulders through the opening.
Haruh's voice scrapes at his back. "Perhaps they miss you.”
Rye pretends he doesn't hear.
7. The Unseens’ Council
-- The Spirits, Elsewhere --
The Grizzly Bear studies the council. Wisest amongst his type, the Grizzly
waits patiently for its fellow spirits to settle from their argument. Yips and
shrieks echo across the mountain peak, snow whipping around the cluster
of representatives for the whole of the Unseen. One for every species of
bird and beast, chosen by virtue of being the strongest, wisest, and
cleverest of their respective animal hierarchies; responsible for restoring
the equilibrium long lost to the world.
Yet they are unable to agree on answers to the most pressing of issues.
The Grizzly Bear sighs, the noise slicing through the howls and titters of its
fellows. Giving a full body shake, the Grizzly speaks: Whether the Lacking is
caused by humanity’s straying from its path or not is immaterial at this
point. We must now focus on the larger issue. The humans have indeed
wandered too far, destroying the foundation of the world with their selfish
desires. They no longer understand our purpose. Nor their own.
Protests of semantics reach the Grizzly in a symphony of whines, shrieks,
and growls, sounding as if Nature were upended upon itself.
They never understood!
We’ve always been ignored!
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23 The Box Turtle, voice booming out of its shell ends the chaotic chatter with:
Stuck us with Seers unable to envision more than fleeting grandeur.
Imagine, believing us incapable of communicating with whomever we
please. Seers, indeed.
The Box Turtle is correct. Humanity has always limited their exposure to us,
have tried to fit us into corners and control us as they do our physical
counterparts. The Grizzly Bear scans the council. Where is the Crimson
Fox?
The King of the trickster spirits, the Crimson Fox glides forward. Stopping
well out of range of the teeth and claws of its fellow Unseen, the Fox flips
its tail at its nemesis, the Gray Wolf, and then waits patiently for the Grizzly
to continue. After a moment, the Grizzly rumbles: Is the kit, your Foolish
One, still trapped in the Forgotten Child?
The Fox grins. No. Though ignored by the Wolf Pup’s human-master, the
House Cat has allowed its pet to release my brother. The Foolish One is
enjoying its freedom as you rest bicker. The Fox licks its jaws and purrs,
head tilting to stare at the Gray Wolf as it speaks, It is difficult for my kind to
cope with confinement; the Foolish One will wreck unbridled havoc to
release its anger; a most devastating motivation for a Fox. If only the Pup
had better control over its human. The Foolish One’s anger may have
been stayed.
The Gray snarls at the Fox. And what would the Trickster suggest the Pup
do?
Eat the other half of the human’s soul. The Foolish One is not so foolish
after all. It has been stripping the human’s half, piece by piece, since the
beginning of its mistake, weakening the soul and gaining control. Already
it possesses the human more completely than the Pup can manage with
its whimpers and pacing.
The Gray’s jaw drops open and it jumps to its feet, snapping at the air.
Damnable tricksters! We are to help the humans, nurture and guide.
Coexist. Never destroy. Your Foolish One requires punishment!
The other hunters of the Fox—the Hound, the Jackal, and the Coyote—
join their Alpha in its decree. Punish. Punish.
The Gray stalks toward the Fox. Your kind should not be present for this
council.
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24 A smack of the Grizzly’s paw on the mountaintop stills the Gray Wolf. The
Grizzly Bear waits for the other spirits to do likewise before speaking. All
spirits serve a purpose, even the tricksters and it is to their kind that we
must turn now. For only a trickster knows the better ways to bring humanity
back to us. Regarding the Fox with a wary gaze, the Grizzly asks; What
does the King Trickster suggest?
Chuckling, the Fox grins and answers, A culling, of course.
Pleased mutters from the more vicious of spirits buzz in the Grizzly Bear’s
ears, the Raven’s spiteful cackles the loudest of the flocked scavengers of
death.
Cull! Cull the herd!
The Rabbit speaks up for the first time since the council gathered. Its pink
nose is a blur of nervous twitches. The Field Mouse and Porcupine take
shelter behind the spirit. A culling? Is that…necessary?
A growled promise of violence from the Bob Cat and the Rabbit cowers.
The Grizzly Bear raises forepaws off the ground in warning. The council
settles into restless silence once more.
Tone laced with false sweetness, the Fox corrects the Rabbit of its naivety:
Humanity must be broken to be malleable.
In response cautious whispers grow eager. Only the Gray Wolf is silent,
watching the spirits with increasing worry. They’ve been ignored for too
long, their tolerance for further disregard low enough to guide all but the
most timid toward retribution.
The Great Horned Owl blinks its eyes, a broken record of But how? How?
falling over the council as the Red-tailed Hawk swoops over a group of
small prey animals, silencing their complaints.
A speaker of lies, the Boa Constrictor slinks between the legs of the Horse,
movements slow in the crisp mountain air: How else? Greed. Humanity
reeks of it. Flicking its tongue, the Boa slides under the Lion’s mane. A
Mourning Dove coos a tease at the display.
But how? They do not listen.
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25 Agreement ripples through the air.
Do not listen.
The Gray grumbles: It’s not right. The Trickster is wrong. Ignored by the
others, the Wolf makes note of which spirits join the hunting cry without
hesitation. The Alpha’s own companions shift in unease behind it. Except
for the Coyote. A trickster at heart, the Coyote has moved to dance with
mirth beside the Fox. The Gray Wolf huffs a command to the Hound. A
sharp bark from the Hound reminds the trickster of its place during council
meetings and the Coyote darts back it the Gray’s side, though it remains
laughing.
A culling.
How, how?
The Crimson Fox yips, Unimaginative fools. A war is all that is needed. And
for a war to start, we will have to herd the humans toward it. Not that they
need go far, always on the brink as they are.
But how do we herd when we have no control?
Ah, you are wrong. There are now two spirits that have control—the Fox
shoots the Gray Wolf a grin—And one that plays at it. Locking eyes with
the Grizzly Bear, the Fox continues. We may be rid of two problems at
once. There are five humans that have been born with the Lacking, more
at one time than ever before. Three are claimed and two are waiting. Fill
the last of the Lackings and send them to work. Make them give us our
war, our culling.
The Gray Wolf stares at the Grizzly, willing the Bear to denounce the foul
creature.
The Grizzly Bear studies the King of Tricksters.
Then, it nods.
8. The Wolf Pup's Master
-- Later, Hafatsu --
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26 Splintering bone wakes me.
I remain motionless and lying on my back with my eyes closed as I
consider the wholeness of my limbs. Another crack, then the scent of
marrow wafts through the air.
I feel no pain.
There is a restless grumble from the Wolf Pup, the spirit pressing against my
awareness, hoping for attention. The behavior is unusual in its persistence. I
work my senses—with the exception of my sight—to extend into the space
of my tent to search for the cause of the Pup’s bravery. Wet fur greets my
nose along with the scrape of claws against bone to my ears.
Another crack. Followed by a whine from the Pup.
“I don’t need two dogs to feed.”
At my words, the chewing ceases. Pressure builds on my chest, an
external force that squeezes air from my lungs. Memory of crushed ribs
warns me that testing the Gray’s patience is unwise.
“Perhaps then, you would care to speak?”
My eyes are open when the Gray climbs atop me. Its form appears
insubstantial—a ghost image whose single clear quality is the scent of pine
and dirt—yet the weight on my chest increases until my breaths are
wheezes. The Pup gnaws at the back of my ribs, eager for its elder’s
acknowledgment.
Swallowing, I wait for the spirits to settle into place, the Gray lying across
my torso, the Pup a steady push against my sternum. Fur blankets go
damp under my hands. The tent shrinks as my vision tunnels.
There is a moment where I welcome the threat of suffocation.
Then, oxygen returns to my lungs.
I would tear your meat if I thought it an effective punishment—the Gray’s
voice thrums under my skin—my kin are not weapons for you to dull and
discard.
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27 It is tempting to point out the contradiction of the Gray’s statement and
my purpose as a Hunter. A weapon is what the Pup turned itself into the
day it ate my lacking. An event I would reverse were it possible.
“Your Pup is the weapon of a weapon and of minor consequence in the
pursuit of the Unseens’ goals by your own decree. To that end, what
would you have me accomplish today? More slaughter? My blades are
becoming strained, their heft worn down by the demands of your kin.”
To watch the Gray in its position and appearance is effort and so I close
my eyes. There is a growl. Rather than retaliate in violence, the spirit
shoves its muzzle into my chest, its ghost flesh melting into my skin, and
greets the Pup. My awareness scatters.
Snatches of information snag my attention—the whisper of wind through
the forest, a child’s bubbling noise, the scent of drying meat, and the
stabs of stones through my blanket—each an impression upon my senses
before my mind collects and I am able to focus on the Gray once more.
Its weight presses through the front of my torso and into my spine, the
vertebrae uncurving in an attempt to lie flat. An ache begins in the small
of my back.
When I open my eyes, the Gray appears as flesh and bone yet its muzzle
remains lodged between my ribs. I don’t allow my thoughts to dwell on
the positioning because though my chest now throbs, panic is
unaffordable.
I say, “I would not object to the removal of the Pup. Or have the Unseen
continued in their failure to cure the lacking?”
This brings a growl that shocks away my vision. The muzzle extracts in a
slow drag. I am not here to ease your burden but to command its
increase.
My throat burns with acid as my empty stomach rebels at the taste of
copper over my tongue. The stench of wet fur has soaked into my
clothing. I force my body to still, breath held, as I wait for the Gray to
continue.
The spirit considers me for a moment. Then dismounts.
Oxygen cools my throat and lungs.
Shrieks of village children playing are a distant annoyance.
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28 You left an assignment incomplete in an error that has cost my kin dearly.
You will return to Crisa, correct your mistake.
I have not failed but one assignment. “The boy?”
The Gray rumbles displeasure.
“Ah, the Fox then. I would think you’d find its confinement amusing.
Unfortunate that you don’t, I made my decision, the boy was spared, the
Fox ignored. I won’t revisit the matter.”
Darkness swallows the tent.
When did I say ‘please?’
With the Fox trapped, slaughtering the child, though grown, will require
little more than a single stroke of my blade. With the Fox trapped—
There is no need for the child’s death. No need for such concern over a
foolish spirit rotting within a human vessel. Although the Unseens’
understanding of the passage of time is skewed, they are not over
inclined toward tolerance of a Hunter’s lapse in obedience unless the
infraction lacks negative results. That the Gray has lowered itself to direct
communication with an unworthy human suggests there are layers within
his command.
My affinity for ripping through layers of meaning is nonexistent. Rye
however. He is likely to still slick along Crisa’s walkways. I will tickle the
boy’s, and thus the Cat’s, ear and let their nervous curiosity wreck its
damage.
“Very well. This time the child’s blood will soak into mud.”
My hands begin to tingle.
I have missed the Basement’s thick scent of decay.
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