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Content warning: this chapter contains violence and child endangerment.
Chapter 12
“Why does it need to kill everyone in our Houses first?” It asks. It suspects it knows the answer, but wants to hear them say the words.
“That’s not your concern,” Dwingtal says.
It laughs, the sound bitter and tired. “Then neither is the demon. Why?”
Galitro lets out a long, irritated breath. “Because many years ago, our seven Houses made a deal with the demon to give us peace, prosperity, and wealth. Every year, on the summer solstice, the demon receives tribute, and renews its agreement.”
It frowns, trying to remember when the summer solstice occurs.
“Four days past,” says Flindega. “All the Houses attended save yours, thinking that the arrangement would continue, even without House Kalcharni. The demon refused.”
“You released it.” It glares at the Masters from Glarin, Tralique, and Paskoni. It hates them, it realizes, with a deep, stomach-twisting hatred made worse because it knows it can’t hurt them. “You broke the contract when you destroyed Kilcharni.”
They don’t reply to that. Instead, Galitro says, “You are cursed. Only a scion of your House can release you.”
It tilts its head and gives him Silinie’s ‘you’re an idiot,’ expression. “And since you killed them all, I’m fucked.”
“They aren’t all dead,” Flindega says. “The survivors aren’t true scions, but are scions nonetheless.”
Hope, sudden and surprising, leaps up inside it. “You didn’t Cleanse the bastard lines?”
“If you help us, the Council will legitimize them,” Galitro says. “House Kilcharni rises once more, and they can release you.”
“Think,” says Flindera. “You could be a person instead of a cursed thing.”
I could be free. Of the curse, the House, the city. Something is wrong with the offer. It feels too easy. The Masters wait, motionless, while it thinks. At last, it asks, “If you have the bastards, why do you need me?”
“To find House Kilcharni’s contract with the demon,” Glarin says.
“All seven Houses signed contracts,” adds Dwingtal. “We need them to summon the demon. Otherwise, it only appears for tribute.”
It spreads its hands wide to show its helplessness. “You burned down our manor. The contract is ash.”
“It isn’t,” Slinitil says. “The contracts bind the demon. It would have attacked at once if the fire destroyed your contract.”
“You know the secret ways of your manor,” Pliseta says. “You will find the contract far faster than we.”
It’s a reasonable answer, but something still feels wrong. Before it can figure out what, Flecina’s Master of Death says, “Before any of that, however, the Dirarchs want their Houses’ future protected. They have ordered us to collect three children from each House and take them to House Flecina’s patron church. Silaghs and soldiers will protect them until we appeased the demon.”
“Before you ask,” Dwingtal says, “the bastards of House Kilcharni are already there. Now, will you help?”
It doesn’t trust them, doesn’t believe they speak the whole truth, and doesn’t like how little it understands what’s happening. It’s also sure it can’t escape. It contemplates jumping in the river, but doesn’t think it could reach it in time. Even if it managed it, getting the filthy water in its wounds meant a slow, painful death from infection, assuming it didn’t drown.
Knowing it has no other choice, it says, “I will help, for as long as our purposes move in the same path.”
“Good enough,” Kileiteria says. “Come.”
Around the corner wait six carriages, each with a different House’s crest. Instead of footmen, Deaths ride on the back, and another sits beside the driver. Kileiteria goes to House Felcina’s carriage and says, “Kilcharni will ride with me.”
Of the seven Houses, Flecina is the richest, and their carriage reflects it. The sides are lacquered wood and inside, plush fabrics cover the seats. Kileteria opens the door and waits. It takes a clohalc ball before it steps inside, hoping it will keep it awake and alert. Flecina’s Master of Death raises an eyebrow but says nothing and steps in behind it. The two sit in silence as the carriage rattles through the street. The carriages go together beyond the sixth wall, to a small manor. The six Masters and it disembark, Deaths behind them. Kileiteria pulls the bell, and a Death, wearing dark green with the sigil of House Glarin on its chest, answers.
“They are ready,” it says, stepping aside to let them in, “but they are not happy.”
Kileiteria leads them through the manor’s main hall—it’s a small building, though well appointed. Polished wood and stone and plush furnishings show the owners to are comfortable, if not wealthy, and the high ceilings echo the raised, arguing voices from the parlour.
“It is a vile idea!” a woman shouts. “I won’t be party to it!”
“We have no choice!” a man yells back, his voice filled with impotent rage. “You’re Recinta. It will come.”
“He’s right,” Kileiteria says, leading the Masters and Deaths into the parlour. “The closer the children are to you, the more they are at risk. They must go with us.”
“We’re not even in the direct line!” The woman protests. She wears an ankle-length peach nightdress that sets off her dark skin and long dark hair. Tear tracks run down her face, and er eyes are red. “I’m a cousin!”
“Once it kills the direct lines, the demon will come here,” Kileiteria says. “The children go with us, to be protected in the God’s church, prayed over by priests and protected by soldiers. You have my word and my vow.”
“No!” the woman cries. “You can’t take them!”
Kileiteria flicks her fingers. Two Deaths seize the woman and move her aside. The Masters pick up the children—a young boy and girl, and a toddler who might be either. The children squirm and protest. Their father tells them it will be all right, that they are going to a safe place, but his wife’s frustrated screams put the lie to his words. Then a Death buries their fists into the pit of her stomach, driving the air from her lungs and silencing her. The Deaths let her fall, gasping, and follow their Masters outside.
They stop four more times before dawn, each at a smaller manor, rather than the homes of Houses’ main line. At each they face protest, though the intensity varies. The Deaths meet any resistance with incapacitating violence and drag or carry the children, crying or screaming or limp with incomprehension, to the carriages.
The sun breaks the horizon when they reach the sixth manor. The parents are waiting with their sleepy-eyed, dressed children. No one pleads or argues, or attempts to stop Kileiteria as she takes the youngest two children in her arms and says, “Take the other child’s hand, little Death”
The child—eight years old, perhaps—looks at it with suspicion, but holds its hand nonetheless and follows it. Their mother, a young woman whose long blond hair and pale skin suggest northern blood somewhere in the family history, trails after them.
“Goodbye, my pretties,” she says. “Have a grand adventure and I’ll see you soon.”
The younger children wave, their faces still slack with sleep. The oldest one says, “I will care for them, mother.”
“Good girl.” The woman smiles, though her eyes shine with tears. She turns to Kileiteria, her voice barely louder than a whisper, “Is there no other way?”
Kileiteria shakes her head, and the woman steps back. Kileiteria puts the two young ones in the carriage, and the older follows. It goes in last, wondering what the mother meant. The Deaths take their positions and the carriages drive through the town to House Flecina’s sponsored church. The square, blue-walled building with its domed top stands larger than any other building around it, and boasts fresh paint and polished, brass-inlaid wood on its doors.
Kileiteria goes in, leaving it to help the children down from the carriage into the church. It gets a glimpse into the main chapel and sees white interior with windows build high up so worshippers have no distractions from the Silagh’s service. Up seven stairs at the front sits a polished wood altar, with the God’s seven-pointed star hanging behind it. Seven Silagh stand in a circle facing the altar, chanting calls for the God’s protection, for their mercy and their forgiveness. Then Kileiteria leads them downstairs to the crypt.
The large room with its many wall tombs is not a place for children, though someone has tried. Lamps hang everywhere. Carpets and cushions cover the floor, along with a scattering of toys. There’s a table low enough for a child to help themselves to the fruit, bread, nuts and sliced meat on it. Three children stand near the food, their hands and faces stained with juice, crumbs on their robes. They stare at the procession coming down and cower as if they expect to be beaten and thrown out.
“Them,” Kileiteria says. “They are the bastards.”
The oldest look maybe ten years, the second, six, and the youngest perhaps four. They wear too-large robes and their faces are thin. It suspects they aren’t used to eating and have been gorging themselves. The smallest still clings to a piece of bread, as if afraid someone will take it. It goes to them, kneels on the carpet beside them.
“Are you part of our House?” oldest child asks, faint hope in his voice. “Are we going to a manor?”
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