Chronicles of a Falling Empire [Bloodstained, Bloodshed]

in web of time where Fate does reign
the past and present merged by pain
she weaves with purpose, gold and blue
to form the threads of me and you

- "The Weaver," Verse 1

When Killián comes to visit me later, I've never seen him so angry.

He stares down at me for a while, nostrils flared, legs planted, arms crossed over his chest. I fiddle with my blanket, refuse to meet his eyes. My fever is gone, and the bandages around my midriff have been changed twice—I feel a little better, but my head is pounding almost as badly as the ache in my lower back. Bard says the stab wound missed my major organs, but it went deep enough to hit bone and there could be a fragment floating around. I might need surgery when we get back to the First Circuit—or maybe it will get better on its own. He gave it 50-50 odds and said I'm lucky to be alive, considering how much blood I lost. Damn Xob twisted the blade before he withdrew it.

"Can you walk?" Killián's voice is clipped. "I don't want to yell at you here."

"I can try." I'm exhausted, but it'll be better to get this over with. "How far?"

"Not far."

He helps me to my feet, wraps a sturdy arm around my shoulders. I lean against him—every step feels like I'm being stabbed over and over again. We exit the medi-tent and walk farther into the scrapyard. Most of the stuff is from the pre-bloodbath era. There are old motor vehicles that bleed oil, blocks of machinery that haven't worked in two centuries, and a couple of metal homes that were dumped here after the world was blown to pieces. The heap is rounded out by miscellaneous piles of garbage. Everyone who has something to get rid of leaves their shit here. When I was on L-Street, I used to come here sometimes to look for treasure. I lived in fear of finding a corpse stashed in the rubble, but that was stupid. It's easier to ditch bodies in the common grave. No one asks questions. Not near Leisure Street.

We clamber up a pile of forgotten artifacts far enough away from the camp that we won't be overheard. There's nothing here to protect us from the sun, and it beats down on us. I squint up at it, enjoying the warmth. Killián withdraws his arm once I'm comfortably perched on the hood of an old vehicle, sitting beside me but not close enough to touch.

I wait.

"What were you thinking?" he says finally.

He doesn't sound angry anymore. He just sounds exhausted.

When I don't respond, he continues.

"I gave you one job," he says. "One order—shadow Rejod. Stay out of combat. You know your essence is missing. You know who has it. You defied me—nearly dying in the process—and that's on you. No one else. What do you have to say for yourself?"

There's no excuse—I've got one anyway. "Rio—"

"Rejod told me he dismissed you, but Rio is a denmaster. You're an elite, and you had your orders from me. The general. Try again."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't cut it, Ko." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "What if you'd died?"

"I almost did." I kick the ground with the toe of my boot, and a jolt of pain cuts through me. "I went to the cabin. The one he told me about. When…y'know. I was unconscious."

Killián stares at me, squinty and hard, something buried beneath the anger in his gaze—pity, maybe. I don't want it. I hate it. I have to look away, so I stare at my boots and resolve not to look at him again.

"Bad?" is all he says.

I nod, a knot in my throat.

"If you'd stayed with the medics, that wouldn't have happened."

"You don't think I don't know that?"

"This is on you, Ko," he says again, harder this time.

"I know that too." I swallow, try to breathe. "I can't spend the rest of my life living in fear of him. He's dead—and you're the Lord of Death. How do we fix it?"

"Yosif is hunting him." Killián folds his hands on his lap—his knuckles are scarred, split two places on the right hand. I can look at them even though I can't bring myself to look at his face. "I have an idea—it's risky. Dangerous. Now is not the time to try it. I'm the general of Lady Death's guard—my focus must remain on Valenès."

"What's going on?" I ask—it's a nice change of subject, even if I'm not happy about my hometown being invaded. "How bad is it?"

I can feel his gaze on me.

"Xobrites have launched a full-scale attack on the city proper," Killián says. "They've taken the municipal building and are currently holding seven justices hostage—my guess is they hope to cripple the local governance. They're hitting the infrastructure hard—bridges are being burned, and water supplies are being sabotaged. They've set up blockades up north, which may prevent Lefe's reinforcements from reaching us. Bowmen are controlling the rooftops while patrols sweep the streets, maintaining a tight grip on key areas. Looting and pillaging are rampant, and our resources are being drained—they've set fire to a few fields in the Farming District. They're targeting leaders in the Judicial District and stormed the duke's chateau, although thankfully Azai is in Bathune—if they get enough justices and support staff, however, they may be successful in creating a power vacuum. We must immobilize immediately to regain control, protect citizens, and push back against the invaders. I deployed Jebah to Ávila to assemble a den from the training camps—hopefully he won't encounter brigades on the southern front when he returns."

"Jebah?" This is enough to make me look at him. "You trust him now? What changed?"

"I have his soul." Killián's smile is grim, a little distant. "He…no longer has secrets from me."

Great Yosif. "He must hate that."

"We haven't had a chance to discuss it." Killián pauses. "I doubt I'll keep it—most likely I'll trade it to Brid Naya'il or Yosif. It's…indecent. I haven't had a chance to explore the depths of his mind, but I know infinitely more than I did this morning. He's been at my throat for so long I never stopped to consider what was driving him…now I feel his rage, his pain, like it's my own. I let him down when he was a child. I let them both down. I should have defeated my father and his guardsmen sooner—the ramifications of leaving my siblings behind to test in Bathune was catastrophic."

"You did what you had to do." Comforting the general feels strange—definitely outside my skillset—but his tone is so strained that I have to try. "You were just a kid yourself."

He doesn't respond.

"Do you think he'll challenge you to another death duel once this is over?" I ask.

"I very much doubt it." Killián sounds almost sad. "I defeated him, fair and square. I have his soul. Perhaps I should offer him a position on the elite guard to keep an eye on him—but at this point, I think he'd find that insulting. Our relationship is probably beyond repair. Some wounds fester too deep to clean."

I hesitate. "Can I give you a piece of advice?"

His eyes narrow. He scrutinizes me. "Perhaps."

"Don't go through his mind." My throat feels tight when I try to swallow. "I can feel it when Leómadura does it—it's awful. He knows too much—things he shouldn't. Private things. He taunts me with them. You want some semblance of a normal relationship with your brother? Give him as much space as possible."

"Yosif's been going through my mind since I was 14, and my father was doing it before that." Killián's voice is sharp. "Don't presume I'm ignorant to the invasion."

"So you won't do it?"

"I didn't say that."

"Do what you want." I kick the dust with the toe of my boot, and pain shoots up my spine. "But don't be surprised when he hates you for it."

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"He already hates me. Better to know thy enemy."

I never thought I'd feel sorry for a sadist, but I do.

Everyone deserves a bit of privacy.

Killián is wrong for this.

###

Later, once I'm back in the medi-tent, Linden comes to visit me. His face is still a little bruised from where I hit him, but it's healing nicely—his eye is no longer bloodshot. Clad in his black leathers, slender shoulders taut, hair braded back into a fighter's plait, he looks like he walked straight off the recruitment pamphlets. I claw the sides of the hammock so I can sit up—he helps me. My back throbs, and so does my head. I wonder when the poppy seeds Bard gave me are going to kick in—I could use some sleep.

"How bad are you injured?" he asks.

"I'll live." I wince. "Hurts, though."

"Can you ride?"

I hesitate. "I'm not supposed to leave the medi-tent."

"We're not going into combat," he says. "We're trying to evacuate L-Street, get the cats and pimps somewhere safe before Xobs make it this far east. We've set up a temporary camp for them five miles into the deadlands, and I can't find anyone else who speaks Valenèsian. Can you ride or not?"

I feel my lower back—it throbs. "Maybe."

"How many people on L-Street speak Circuit-Tongue?"

"Depends on the neighborhood. Most kids—the public schools give the basics, and that's where I learned." I squint at him. "Some cats pick it up from johns. Anyone older than 30 who's lived here their whole life—probably not."

"I need you, then."

Even if it pisses off Killián, there's not much of a choice—these are my people. "Help me up."

He puts an arm around my shoulders, and we hobble over to the horses. Someone re-strapped my scythe to Akee, brought her back here for me. I'm grateful, and I rub her white nose. She huffs out a sigh that makes me miss Sinope.

It hurts to mount, but not as much as it hurts to ride. Linden and I exit the scrapyard, and we make our way down the dirt path that passes the common grave. The stink of rotten meat hits like a punch to the gut, and I pull the neckline of my leather jacket over my nose and mouth—my back screams in protest at the gesture, and I can feel blood soaking through the bandages. Linden does the same with his undershirt—he's not wearing a jacket, just a vest and bracers. He nudges me with his leg—our horses are close enough to touch. I guess he's hoping to catch me if I fall, which may actually happen. My head is light, spinning, and it feels like it's about to float off my shoulders.

"Killián has Jebah's soul," I say, partly to distract myself and partly because I want to talk about it with someone who isn't the general himself. "Crazy, right?"

"Kempe's furious," Linden says. "She thinks he should return it to Brid Naya'il. Says no good can come from knowing things about Jebah that didn't come from the man's mouth."

"Why does she care?"

"They got close when she was his pridemaster. Sometimes I think she likes him more than she likes Killián."

I stare at Linden, nonplussed. "He's a sadist."

"Yeah, and Killián's a saint." Linden snorts—it's not a sound he usually makes, and it surprises me. "We're not in an industry that promotes moralism, Ko. Killián's got his share of issues. Kempe doesn't approve of Jebah's policies, but she thinks Killián's too neutral when it comes to some of the Septemvirate's harder stances. He tends to keep his head down when he goes up against Galtero's puritanical bullshit, and that bothers her. Jebah's friends with the guy, but he's open with his liberalism."

"Since when is Jebah liberal?"

"When it comes to political issues—very." Linden tugs on an ear. "He's written most of the articles that have been published in the last decade aiming to overthrow the caste system. I'm surprised you don't know that."

"Are we talking about the same Jebah?"

"I mean, he thinks military service should be mandatory for every male and female between the ages of 16 and 24—but he doesn't think there should be Whoresons or born-agains confined to servitude."

"Killián wants me to marry his daughter," I say. "How is he anti-Whoreson?"

"He's not." Linden looks at me suspiciously. "Why are you being so defensive?"

"Jebah mutilated my hand, and Killián got me off L-Street. There's no competition. Kempe's off."

"Maybe—but she likes Jebah's sense of humor. She also thinks Killián smokes too much."

"He's the general. Conversing with spirits is part of his job."

"I'm not saying that's what I think, Ko. Calm down."

"I'm just in pain," I say shortly, and we make the rest of the ride in silence.

###

The mecca of brothels, casinos, and temporary housing units are not accustomed to coordinated evacuations. It's a different world from the abandoned street I encountered earlier—whips are ushering people from apartments and buildings, gathering them into groups on the street. A nursing mother is screaming at one in rapid-fire Valenèsian, loud enough to be palpable over the chaos and disorder. I dismount, hand my reins to Linden, and hobble over to her. The lancer is staring at her with a blank expression on his face, trying to calm her down by patting her shoulder. She jerks away and tries to spit in his face over her baby's head.

I position myself between them. "Are you okay, ma'am?" I ask in Valenèsian.

"This is my home," she screams at me, gesturing to the temporary housing unit. "All of our things are here. My life is here. We're not leaving."

"Xobrites are coming, ma'am, and this is only temporary." I keep my voice calm, level. "There's a camp about five miles east where you can wait out the attack—then it will be safe to come home, and you can return."

"To a plundered or burned flat?" She rakes her fingernails down the side of my face, and I stumble backward. "Get out of my face! I'm going back inside."

"What's she saying?" the lancer asks in Circuit-Tongue.

"She's not leaving," I say.

"Tell her she doesn't have a choice."

"You saw her just claw off half my face, right?" I rub the injury, and my fingers come away red. "If she wants to die here, let her."

I don't really mean that, though—we're two blocks away from Kolton's Kitties. This woman is technically one of my neighbors, although I don't recognize her. She's in her mid-30s, pretty enough to still work in a house but not so pretty as to be making major bank. There's no tat on her left arm, though, and she's wearing short sleeves—I would see it. Maybe she deals piccu in one of the casinos.

I try one last time. "Ma'am, think of your baby—do you want to die here?"

"Better here than in the deadlands!"

"You'll be able to come back."

She cackles. "Little boys don't know which way the wind blows."

Okay—fair—but still, ouch. I return to Linden—the woman with the baby isn't the only one raising a fuss about the evacuation. Most of the people around us are baiting whips, most of whom have already drawn their lances or swords and are starting to herd the people into groups by the points of their weapons. A man is shoved over, scraping his knees on the cobbles, and then he jumps the nearest guardsmen. It's quick—a knife to the throat—and the man drops. The people around him start screaming, shoving, trying to get back in the buildings.

I have to do something.

I scramble onto the nearest milk box—it's next to an overturned fruit cart, lemons and apples rotting and dusty in the street. Clambering up hurts my back, but I grit my teeth—I have a job to do, and I'm not going to let a stab wound stop me from doing it.

I put two fingers between my lips and whistle as loudly as I can.

It's loud enough to break through the pandemonium. People look over at me—a few of the whips standing nearby see my black leathers, put a fist to their heart, and dip their heads. The crowd proper looks far less diplomatic—most of them are still scowling, staring at me like I'm a damn Xob who's about to ransack their abandoned homes.

I cup my hands over my mouth.

"Listen to me," I yell in Valenèsian. "I'm in a lot of pain and I have a date with a medi-bed, so let's keep this quick and simple. Xobrites are storming the city. If you don't want to die, fall in and follow orders. You will be able to return as soon as we've cleared the city. No one's going to take your shit—I'm from here, and I say with absolute confidence that very few of us have anything worth stealing. If you have a sword or spear, feel free to stick around and join the fight. If you don't, your best chance at survival is five miles east."

"How long will it take you to clear the city?" someone yells—a pimp, by the looks of him, with a bushy mustache and magnificent knee-high green leather boots. Golden beads are strung from the stitching, dancing around his tapping heel.

"Do I look like a future-reader?" I shout back.

"You look like one of Lady Death's elites," is his retort. "Do you have a guess? Have you spoken to the general?"

I turn to Linden, who's watching me with his mouth slightly agape. "Do we know how long it will take to clear the city?" I translate.

"Uh…" He shifts from foot to foot. "Could be three hours. Could be a week. Could be a retreat is forced and the city falls."

"Four days, tops," I tell the man. If it's a lie, it won't be my problem—they'll be under someone else's supervision when they get to the camp.

"Is that a guarantee?" he asks. "Is there shelter? Food?"

"How well stocked are the camps?" I ask Linden.

"I'm sure there will be five course meals and canopy beds fit for princesses." His voice drips with sarcasm. "They'll be alive, Ko. Get them to the damn base."

"Get into groups of ten!" I shout at the assembled mob, counting nearby whips. "I think we have enough guardsmen to supervise that. Now, please."

They listen to me. For whatever goddamn reason, they listen to me. I step off the milk box, and my back gives out—I fall to my knee. Linden puts an arm around my shoulders and lugs me to my feet. Cold sweat drips down my face, and my entire body feels clammy beneath my leathers. Bile hits the back of my throat, and I choak it down.

"What now?" I ask, my voice hoarse.

His expression is sympathetic. "Now we do the next street."