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Content warning: filth
Chapter 26
It wakes on the floor of the council chamber, its flesh no longer on fire. The brand on its chest burns no hotter than when it first accepted Talint’s command. It pushes itself to sitting, feels the fresh filth on its body, and breathes in its own stench. A cough comes up from deep inside its lungs and bursts out of its mouth with a spray of blood.
“. . . extraordinarily powerful,” the Trimagh is saying. “I believe I can break it, but it will take more than a simple blessing.”
With the curse’s fire gone, it feels everything else. Tears, blood and snot cover its face. Its muscles ache from long-held tension now released. Breathing hurts. Its ankles and wrists sting where the ropes chafed them bloody. The older wounds and bruises still hurt, too. But for the first time since the sacrifice, its mind is clear.
“Can you do it immediately?” asks Hahark.
“It is too weak,” Trimagh Ashinitha says. “It should stay in the church’s custody until it heals.”
“There is no time,” the Litarch of Felcina says. “It must be made Diragh or Miragh of House Kilcharni, so we may complete the ritual.”
They’re deciding my fate.
“It cannot be Miragh or Diragh,” says the Trimagh. “The curse on it makes it neither male nor female. It cannot even be considered human.”
“Make it something,” Felcina’s Litarch says. “Until Kilcharni is restored, the demon will continue to rampage.”
“The Council can declare it head of Kilcharni,” Councillor Davina says. “That will do until the church removes its curse.”
“Assuming you are able, Trimagh,” says Hahark.
I don’t want to be the head of Kilcharni. It forces its aching muscles to work, pushes its hands against the ground and struggles to its feet. The women on either side grab its arms, and their grip keeps it upright.
“It must do the ritual first,” the Litarch insists. “The sooner that happens, the more lives you save. After, our House can take custody of it.”
“Your House will do no such thing,” Hahark says. “You’ve caused the city enough damage. It stays under council control.”
“Church control,” Trimagh Ashinitha declares. “It is a cursed being. It belongs to us.”
I will never be free.
“We can decide this after,” says Councillor Davina. “Felcina is right. First, we make the creature Head of House Kilcharni, and have it perform the ritual. Then we decide who controls it.”
It breathes deep, and says, “Fuck. You.”
All eyes land on it, but only for a moment. Then they turn away and Felcina’s Litarch says, “We will teach it the ritual—”
“Fuck you!” Its voice echoes through the room. The Trimagh doesn’t blink, and none of the elders or council members look impressed at its outburst. It tries to collect its wits and come up with something better, but it wasn’t taught to fight with words. So it says, “You can’t make me do anything.”
“A whipping would teach you otherwise,” the Litarch of Felcina suggests.
It laughs, then, the sound as harsh as the croaking of angry ravens. Blood and tears splatter the marble beneath it as it looks down at its old scars, at the bruises and scrapes from the fights and the demon’s tentacles, and the bloody abrasions on its ankles and wrists.
It can’t fight with words, but violence is something it understands very well. “Try me.”
“Every moment you delay, children are dying,” the Litarch of Felcina says. “Innocents who have nothing to do with this—”
“I had nothing to do with this,” it snarls. It looks up at the councillors. “They Cleansed House Kilcharni. They killed everyone and tried to sacrifice me. And now you’re saying I have to fix it? Why should I?”
“It wants something,” Felcina’s Litarch says, a sneer on her face. “Will you hold the city for ransom?”
It glares hatred at her, but doesn’t know what to say.
“What do you want?” the Trimagh asks.
“Money? Power?” the Litarch demands scornfully. “Perhaps the thing wants a place on the Council?”
“Perhaps it wants not to be covered in its own shit,” Councillor Hahark suggests.
God, yes. It desperately wants to be clean. And while it washes, it can think of a way to fight them. So it says, “Yes. For a start, I would like to not be covered in my own shit.”
“Dunk it in the river,” says the Litarch of Felcina. “Maybe then it will remember its manners.”
“You’re the reason I’m like this,” it hisses. “Fuck my manners and fuck you.”
“Councillors,” the elder begins, but Davina interrupts her.
“Take it to the Council’s bath chamber,” she says. “Have it washed, and find it something to wear.”
“Yes, Councillor,” say the women holding it. They turn it without letting go and one gestures to a door on the side of the council chamber. “This way.”
Their grips stay tight as they pull it through the door and into a narrow, undecorated hallway. Behind them, it hears voices raised in argument, but doesn’t care enough to listen. Now that it is away from everyone’s scrutiny, it just wants to collapse. But the Deaths drag it through the back hall and down a set of stairs into the largest kitchen it has ever seen. A dozen people scurrying from table to table, and inspect the contents cooking on the hearth.
The workers smell it first, and an older man with a silver badge on his hat demands, “Who the fuck shit their—”
When he sees who is escorting it, he stops talking. The other workers plug their noses or grimace in disgust or get as far away as possible, but no one else speaks. The Deaths lead it past tables of flatbreads and meats and fruit and vegetables, prepared for the councillors upstairs. Its stomach rumbles so loud the closest workers cringe. It hasn’t eaten in . . .
How long has it been?
It reaches for the food, but the Deaths keep going, taking it out another door, into a hallway much warmer than the first. They pass a room with wide-open doors and people inside tending fiery furnaces, stoking them and fanning them to keep the flames hot. Pipes run from the walls to large vats sitting above the furnaces, then up through the floor above. The Deaths pull it up a flight of stairs to a small metal door marked “Bath” that they have to walk through single file.
The chamber on the other side is huge, with light-blue walls and blue-tiled floors and a ceiling painted with frescos of fish darting among sea plants. Two large, steaming-hot, soaking pools and the smaller cold plunge pool between them sit empty. There are ten washing stations, with stools, buckets, brushes and cloths, and four tables for massages. A line of men and women, young and attractive, wearing only white loincloths, wait against the wall. Each has a towel over their arm and a tall pitcher of water at their feet. For the briefest moment, it sees horror and disgust on their faces, but they are trained well enough that the expressions vanish.
The Deaths stop at a washing station and let it go. One turns to the bath attendants and says, “The council orders this thing cleaned and its wounds dressed. Wash it.”
“I can clean myself,” it protests.
The Death ignores it and points at a man and a woman, “You two. Extra water, extra cloths.”
The attendants open a hidden door painted to look like the rest of the wall, revealing a small storage room. They take six pitchers, filling them first with steaming water from a red spigot in the room’s wall, then with cooler water from a blue spigot. They bring the water to where it stands, then go back for more cloths.
The Death nods at an empty bucket. “Toss your loincloth in there. Then hold still while they clean you.”
“No,” it says. “I will wash myself.”
“The councillor ordered you washed,” says the Death. “So let them wash you or we’ll pin you down and they can scrub you with the brushes they use on the tiles. Now get the loincloth off.”
Helplessness and anger make it flush. It considers fighting, but they’re strong and fresh and no doubt armed. So it looks away and does as it is told.
The loin cloth is at its knees when the room’s main doors open. A pair of soldiers lead Councillors Hahark and Davina inside, followed by the Trimagh and her two attendants. The council soldiers and attendants take positions by the door, while councillors and Trimagh sit on a wooden bench running the length of the chamber wall.
“We need to talk, Death of Kilcharni,” says Councillor Hahark, “about how precarious your position is here.”
Chapter 27 comes June 6th!
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