Page 42 of The Moon Blessed King
‘The Reapers at Kreuzfurt don’t have those marks. I don’t. Do you regret healing me?’
She has the wherewithal to catch herself from saying whatever her instinctive response would have been. But she does not manage to hold back a mulish, ‘You’re different. You’re not likethem.’
‘Yes,’ he refutes. ‘I am. I am Alelunen. I am a Reaper. I lived in dark and silence. And I came to your country to serve as an agent of Death. I would have killed everyone you loved, and had your brother beenanyoneelse, I would have succeeded. And I would not have regretted it. Not as your country fell to chaos or despair, not as your people panicked and our armies advanced. My mother would still be alive if I had done that. Altas never would have been slaughtered in the first place. But none of that happened because I was given a reason and a chance to do otherwise, because circumstanceswerewhat they were, and eventuallyyougave me the chance to be more than that mark on my face. So, I am asking you to givethemthe chance to do the same.’
She healed his face. Erased his scar. Wiped away the violent and brutal reminder that he had murdered his father, and that all he had been good for was death. How can anyone expect more from someone when one of the worst days of their lives is burned onto their face for all the world to see? When merely existing in public is an act worthy of condemnation, terror and imprisonment?
‘You want to do something that matters to someone?Thiswill matter tothem. And it will matter to me. So…please help me,’ he begs. ‘Please help them.’
She does not want to say yes. He knows that. He can feel her fury and disdain in her very life force, can feel it shudder and writhe across his senses. Adrenaline, noradrenaline and cortisol race through her blood, all signs Elena Morsen had taught him to look for. All signs of agitation.
But in the end, grudgingly, she says yes.
It may not make her feel any better, but doing the right thing doesn’t need to feel good at all.
The school building where the prisoners are kept is only a few blocks away. It does not take long to reach it. Elician is still asleep. If they hurry, perhaps they can be done with it all and return before he wakes.
There are many guards watching over the area, but Cat and Fen are let through after only a few moments to confirm who they are. They need no escort. Cat leads Fen down a long corridor that runs parallel to the main city street. It takes up almost a full block with three floors above and a basement layer below. There is a yard in the back of the school complex where children used to gather for physical exercises and games. Most of the hedges have been burned away and their toys have been reduced to ash.
The building feels dead, cold, and filled with a nothingness that used to carry its own kind of peace back in Alerae when Cat was young. Marina and a small group of soldiers man the last door to the lecture hall the Reapers have been placed in. His old mentor does not seem surprised to see him.
‘Your Grace,’ she greets, fetching a key from her pocket despite a few grumbling complaints from her fellow guards. ‘Princess.’
‘How have they been?’ he asks.
‘Good, calm. Are you ready?’ She could mean so many things, too many to contemplate.
‘I will do my best,’ is all he can say in turn.
Marina unlocks the chains holding the door shut, then the door proper. She pushes it open, and there is no running, screaming mob of the dead hurrying to lay waste to all of Altas. There is only the quiet shift of bodies and a hiss of confusion whispering out in the dark.
Fen grimaces as she follows him inside, gasping when the doors close behind them. But he pays her no mind.
The Reapers have gathered into a tightly packed circle. Their limbs are sprawled every which way. Heads rest on arms, backs, stomachs, legs. There are men and women spooning and using each other as blankets. His first reaction is to look away. To behold such conduct isindecentandvoyeuristicby Alelunen standards. These people have wanted to touch one another for years, and the sweet enjoyment of doing so now is too personal for a stranger’s eye. He keeps his eyes averted as the Reapers untangle themselves. One after another, hissing a low mourning sound. They are sad to part. Fearful to be separated. He wants to hiss back a reassurance, but waits. It is not his place to disturb this grief, and they deserve to know their feelings are felt and echoed by their group first.
As they find their own space on the floor, Cat thinks of their clothes. They were barely covered when they arrived, given only scraps from the Alelunen army, and while Lio has gathered donations from Altasians for them to wear (without specifically explaining what for), the fits are not good. It reminds him of when he first came to Soleb. He had hated how his borrowed clothes settled on his body, how clumsy and ridiculous he felt within them. But in the evenings, Elician shared a blanket with him, smiled and made adjustments to try to make the outfit less cumbersome. He liked that. Liked, too, reaching out and just touching Elician’s skin from time to time, relishing the thought that the other man couldn’t die. That wasn’t so bad. He would have been ashamed if Lio had ogled him at any point during it, though.
‘Fen,’ he chastises when he realizes she is doing just that. Finally, she drops her eyes. They wait. And only when the Reapers are in more decent positioning does Cat approach.
In Lunae, he says, ‘My name is Alest, son of Queen Alenée of Alelune. I am your rightful king…and I am a Reaper just like you.’
A Reaper with dark curly hair slowly crawls forward. He holds outhis hand, palm upwards, fingers pressed tight. Cat rests his bare palm on top. He does not seek to grab, or hold. He lets their palms and fingers connect, and he feels the sparking, tingling familiarity ofhomeagainst his skin. Muffled whispers shift amongst the group. Cat says, ‘I was kept in the Reaper cells under Alerae. I do not recognize you.’
‘I’m Angelo,’ the Reaper before him replies. ‘We were of the city of Sinestra. We knew of no son of Alenée that was a Reaper.’
‘We thought Alest of Alelune died,’ another informs him.
Cat nods without speaking. Angelo lowers his hand, and the others shuffle forward. They arrange themselves so he can see most just by turning his head. Some introduce themselves. Some do not. Some speak in Lunae, others hiss – like a test. He hisses back, matching sound for sound, marvelling at how the language oftheirpeople had emerged in Sinestra just as it had in Alerae.
He longs, suddenly, surprisingly, for his cell back in the city. The way his family once embraced him through the cascading whisper of their voices and sounds. Not a language but a presence. Trapped in the dark of Alerae, only the echoes of their thoughts could spread through a round of voices all pushing the same feeling along. Each hissing breath felt natural, building a conversation through intonation and inclination that they all took part in. He longs for the people he loves. For Brielle.
‘Why have you come to us now, and not before?’ Angelo asks.
‘We were trying to understand what happened in the city,’ Cat replies.
‘We killed everyone,’ Angelo answers, shameless, unafraid. His chin tilts up in expectation. Cat dashes that in an instant.
‘They have all been brought back.’ A startled burble of uncertainty courses through the crowd. Voices split apart, seeking clarification.
