The Partisan Chronicles [Dystopia | Supernatural | Mystery]

Andrei

A binding between two Partisans of the same race guaranteed one thing: the couple could not be separated by the call of duty. If one were deployed on a job, the Assembly was required to deploy the other as well. It was an uncommon practice because most Partisans viewed romantic relationships as an unnecessary distraction. Most were content to procreate with their arranged partner and were just as content to never have to see them again. The Assembly made certain this mindset was encouraged from an early age.

After some consideration, I understood the Commander's decision to bind with Helena Varis was not made without personal motivation. Due to her Legacy status, she could no longer be deployed into active service. In her retirement, she had other options. She could choose to raise her and Michael's children in the village until their conscription at the age of eight, practice her craft among the Barrens, or work as a smith at the Drop. Meanwhile, Oskari had become a personal project for Michael—one he was reluctant to abandon.

The binding was a simple service. Sinclair was our only witness and the couple took their places before the lectern I hoped would not collapse beneath the weight of the Amali Charter. Due to its rarity, I hadn't been inclined to memorize the speech, and it was a speech without flourish, without words of affection or true devotion.

"Today, on the twenty-ninth day of the eleventh month in the year 824, it is in the name of Amalia we gather to celebrate the joining of two divine servants under the watchful protection of the Six. Michael, first to the line of Reider, do you promise to abide the laws of Palisade and your gods-given duty to Amalia, eternally forsaking all else within the binds of eternal companionship?"

From the pews, Sinclair's gaze was hard-focused straight ahead. I wondered if she were imagining what it would be like if we were the ones making promises to one another. It was wishful thinking. I'd soon discover her attention was reserved for the wall behind me.

"I do," the Commander said.

The vows were repeated for Helena Varis. There was no plot twist in her response.

"Thus, on the twenty-ninth day of the eleventh month in the year 824, I, Andrei Strauss, Second to the Church of Oskari and in the name of Amalia, declare you, Helena Varis, and you, Michael Reider bound by the Six."

Endless paperwork followed the ceremony—no more interesting than it sounds, I promise. We had our doubts he could do it, but Michael had convinced the Legacy to deliver the news to the Drop. We had matters to attend, and we needed her out of the way. You see, Sinclair was all but certain she'd found the way into the hidden crypts and it just so happened the way was straight through the wall directly behind where I stood for twelve hours a week on average.

"You sure this is it?" the Commander asked.

"I reckon," Sinclair said. "The stonework is different—just barely, but different."

The Commander and I stared at the wall until we gave up.

"We have no clear idea of their numbers," I said. "They walk among us, among the locals. Dozens of people die each year from an illness that never truly existed."

"Our problems don't end with Lidia Roska, yeah, I get it. But what do you actually expect we'll find down there?" the Commander asked.

"There is the possibility these Devourers choose not to live in the village among the Barrens, but if not with them, then where? Emerich Bach confirmed they do experience debilitating versions of our collective weaknesses. A retinal intolerance to sunlight suggests they might choose to live underground."

"Okay, but if the crypt's been sealed, we have to assume there's another way in," Reider said. "They can't walk through walls. Can they?"

"Even if they can become invisible, this doesn't make them able to pass through solid objects—I don't think. The truth is, Commander, we may find nothing in the crypt besides dust and spiders, but I suspect there's a good reason it was sealed."

The stone wall behind the lectern was no match for Michael Reider and his sledgehammer, and it was pitch black through the hole in the wall—well past the range of our superior vision. Sinclair was tasked with carrying the lantern. We'd learned the hard way to expect the unexpected and our warrior would be best left uninhibited. For obvious reasons, I was never considered for the position of light-carrier.

At the bottom of the winding stairs, we faced a large chamber wherein four caskets were set upon stone slabs. Each casket was expertly carved from a different variety of wood, and the walls around them were lined with plaques inscribed with names and dates. The drawers where the remains were stored were embedded into the cavernous walls.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Say, Strauss, are you aware there's a breed of flower that doesn't die?" Sinclair asked. "You ought to plant some."

A few months earlier, I'd have dismissed the idea of an immortal man. Who was I to rule out the possibility of an immortal flower? At the base of the mahogany casket, there lay a bouquet of white lilies, still vibrant and fresh. Much to Sinclair's dismay, this didn't confirm a new species of flower, but it did confirm the crypt was being used and that another entrance must exist.

Clearing the first room, we headed down a corridor leading to another similar chamber. Michael and I were about to step inside to investigate when we realized our light source wasn't following. We waited until a loud squeak sent us rushing back.

When we arrived, Sinclair was peeking into an open casket.

"This one doesn't look dead," she said. "He also looks familiar."

"Is it one of Those Things?" Reider asked. "Should I cut off its head?"

"Absolutely not," I said. "Destroying it would draw the attention of its creator."

The Commander furrowed his brow. "Isn't that what we want?"

No, it wasn't at all what we wanted. Not yet.

I positioned myself beside Sinclair. The man in the casket was dressed exceptionally and had been lain to rest alongside a cane with an amethyst topper. There were insects among him, but all were dead. Strange—the body in the casket was not decomposing, so what would have attracted them in the first place? And there was something very familiar about the man in the burgundy suit.

"Sinclair, I—what are you doing?"

"I'm taking his rings," she said. The first ring was an emerald set in gold. The second was a band of pure, tarnished silver. The Strachan was cautious with the latter due to an allergy to Auditoria's rarest metal—a bond all Partisans shared to some degree.

"Why are you taking his rings?"

"On account of his cane won't fit in my bag."

I narrowed my eyes.

Sinclair continued with a shrug. "Honestly? It just feels right."

"Grave robbing just feels right?"

"Aye."

The Commander stepped around the casket to see the man inside for himself, and then, it was as if time stopped for everything but the melody—weaving through our minds as if it had always been there. Unsung memories of times long forgotten. The sorrow, the joy, the wonder and terror of everything we'd ever lived and would ever come to live. The chamber fell still, silent while all those within were entranced by the awakening.

I could not tell you how the others had been affected by the melody in that moment. While the dead man rose, nothing else mattered—nothing but him. The man wandered the room, hobbling without the aid of his cane.

"The times," he mused. "A cursed canticle. Or is it blessed? Yes and yes. Bound to repeat, a paragon of immortality." The man bowed to Sinclair and then to the Commander. "Good afternoon to you, Justice and Honour." He then winked at me. "And a good afternoon, Temperance, my darling. It's been far too long."

By the time we were pulled from our trance, the man and his cane were gone and the flowers at the base of his casket were dead. Amali, Strachan, brave, cowardly—no matter—we all flew for the stairs.

When we emerged, Sinclair and the Commander hadn't broken a sweat while I sought desperately to catch my breath. Not for a lack of constitution, but in hindsight I realize I was having a panic attack. As much as we may have wanted, none of us could immediately speak about what we'd seen or what we'd felt. It was a compulsion beyond our control. But we knew who we'd seen—who we'd heard—and that was enough.

That day, we met Zacharias Vonsinfonie.

"Reider, Sinclair." I pointed down the aisle.

The Strachan groaned.

The Commander sighed.

Father Belaia, elderly but otherwise healthy, lay dead on the floor. Having been occupied in his office that day, he'd most likely emerged to investigate the noise when we broke down the wall. I should have felt remorse, and later I would grieve for my mentor. In the moment, my senses were still numb. Shock, perhaps. The fault of the melody, more likely. For a time—and only for a time—it was as though I'd never again feel anything better or worse. Others had survived lesser and greater tragedy. Others had experienced lesser or greater love. Nothing was original. It was all inevitable.

"We're going to have some explaining to do," Reider said.

"The man was old," Sinclair added. "End of story. We've got bigger problems."

We absolutely did, and so it was decided. The Commander would travel to the Drop alongside the remains of our Father, while Sinclair would keep watch over the village. As for myself, I'd seek out Emerich Bach and prepare to leave for the compound.

From that day forward, I'd be known as Father Andrei Strauss, First to the Church of Oskari, and for the first time in four centuries, the church would close, lock, and barricade its doors to the public.