Shard, page 8
part #2 of Cruelly Made Series
The Blightling’s jaws are now as wide as the beggar is tall. The beggar bursts into a sprint and runs down the length of the arena. The Blightling careens after him, jaws still wide and body shaking like jelly. It somehow moos.
“No!” I scream.
The Blightling jumps, arches, careens downward, and lands, mouth-first, on top of the man. Its jelly legs dangle in the air as it does the worst headstand you can possibly imagine, and its throat starts to work as it digests the beggar.
“Oh gods,” I whisper, holding onto the crystal-net of all of us with my magic, as the Fells’ thread thunders like hoofbeats on stone. “Oh gods, oh gods.”
As one, we all sag onto the bench next to Atrament, who is unmoved.
“Amazing,” one of the nobles says admiringly.
“Disturbing,” another says, visibly shuddering. “Even the tame ones are like that?”
“Yes,” the Warden says.
Tame? There is no such thing as a tame Blightling.
The Researcher says, “I know you often just see the ones we bring for the Trials—”
“You mean the incident this spring,” the noble with the little dog says, looking at me.
“Exactly.”
“Horrifying.” The noble sniffs while the military flush but don’t comment.
“But Blightlings readily consume anything.”
The Warden sips some wine and offers no comment.
Why are the military big-wigs frowning like they’ve never seen this before? And why the fuck did they drag us up here to watch it?
I shiver in Blood’s arms. Blood, smothered by Rot, says, his voice curiously steady, “You’re crushing me, Rot.”
Rot releases us and sinks back onto the bench. Smoke moves close to him, expression somehow stricken and blank. Blood slowly unwinds his arms from me. Rot and Smoke are just empty. My magic simmers and roils like a storm.
The Blightling finishes its meal while everyone chats, like it was a fox the hounds had caught, or a stag that had put up a fight, or a boar that had gored someone, and wasn’t this just a fine summer hunt.
Some liveried servants and junior attaché officers from the military appear to change out food and wine. They don’t look at what’s happening in the ring. I don’t have anything against the servants, but the junior officers disgust me. They’re the high-bred brats who aren’t going to inherit or have somehow embarrassed their family and get herded off to the military, but are too useless (or coddled) to serve in an actual combat unit, so they just get assigned an officer rank and spend their time as glorified valets, while getting to leech all the same glories that the actual fighters win just by virtue of proximity.
Blood crouches on the ground between the two rows of seats, sitting sort of squished between Rot’s knees and my back. I reach behind myself and offer him my hand. There’s a moment of pause, and then he takes it, his slender fingers gripping my palm.
“Now observe,” the Colonel says to the nobles. “If you’ve never seen experienced Aether Mages handle a freshly-fed Blightling before.”
“Oh,” the one with the little dog says with interest.
The doors to the arena open once again, and a team of six Aethers, all in military uniforms, older, hardened, with loops and chains of rank, march in. It’s an Aegis team, with a Frost Aether as their Aegis, and a Crystal combat Mage.
I sit up straighter. The story went that the Crystal had failed to become a Heart, but in that time, the Frost had revealed herself as an unexpected Aegis. So the Crystal had a combat spot while the Frost had become the Aegis. They’re famous and decorated, and nearing retirement, but they should be at the front, not the ass-end of the Empire.
The Crystal Mage is a male. His hair is more intensely colored than mine, and shaven short against his skull like a glimmering rainbow, and his skin shines. They move as one, flowing and shifting with beautiful ease, and you’d never know that it wasn’t the Crystal acting as a Heart. They are just that practiced and spectacular.
They’re also here watching this horrific demonstration.
Crystal lodges a spear right through the creature’s heart as an opening volley, and from there, it’s over quickly and easily.
Polite applause from everyone except us Mages.
The crystal spear starts to disintegrate into the ground along with the Blightling’s corpse almost immediately. Just like it should. Just like it always does. Faster, even, because of the leeching presence of the Blight that saturates every part of this place.
My mouth goes dry. And when the Colonel looks at me, disgust plain on his face, I realize he doesn’t know.
The Warden hasn’t told him.
Blood whispers, his breath on my neck, “It’s just you that can make the crystal that doesn’t disintegrate.”
Sweat beads all over my skin.
“Shh,” Smoke leans forward. “The Warden hasn’t told them.”
“What weird game is he playing?” Rot whispers.
Atrament cocks his head to the side, but does not intrude on our conversation.
“I used to be upset about Crystal not making a Heart,” one of the officers says, meaning the male Crystal down in the arena and not me, “but can’t complain. A solid Crystal combat Mage is a grand thing for a team. Crystal slices through Blightlings better than anything else.”
I gulp, utterly sick, and not because I was never offered the chance to become a combat Mage on an Aegis team.
The Warden offers the officer a demure, compressed smile of agreement.
I’m going to puke.
“Ready for the next demonstration?” the Warden inquires pleasantly.
9
Crystal
The noble with the little dog chortles, grabs the thing by its scruff, and hands it to the Warden. The Warden tucks it against his chest on one arm, and strokes it with the other hand. The little dog squirms and licks his chin.
“I doubt you can do much with that,” the noble says with a grin. “But it’s my sister’s wretched little yap-bag, so do your worst.”
“What?” I gasp.
“Even little lap dogs are dangerous, my Lord,” the Colonel says. “Actually, they’re extremely dangerous.”
“I know. The damn thing has bitten me at least twice.”
“Dogs are good judges of character,” I snap.
The Warden walks over to the edge of the arena and chucks the little dog into the sand. It rolls over and yelps, but isn’t hurt. It runs over to the side of the arena and starts barking.
“What is this?!” Rot bellows, jumping up.
One of the gates slides up, and a few seconds later, BlightWorm hurries into the arena.
One: I’ve never seen a BlightWorm hurry.
Two: I’ve never seen a BlightWorm that little.
“A baby BlightWorm?” I ask nobody.
Smoke utters something that sounds like a prayer in the Language of Priests.
The Blightling shuffles and chubbles and squishes its way at a very good clip towards the yappy dog, which is now barking in sheer terror.
“Oh hell,” Rot says.
“Keep your asses in your seats,” the Colonel snarls at us.
I already saw someone get eaten. I’m not playing along with the Warden’s sick political scheming or whatever the hell he’s doing.
Blood grabs my wrist, his expression terrible. His emotion churns against my magic like the beating of frantic, dark wings.
I smile bitterly and twist my wrist in his grip to grab his own wrist. “What are they going to do to me? Throw me in the Pit? You three stay and follow orders.”
I yank free and plunge over the edge of the ring. I land hand-first into the sand, duck, roll, and jump to my feet. The BlightWorm pauses, rears up, and opens its maw. Then it makes a hollow bellowing sound, and sprints towards me.
“Come on, puppy!” I snatch up the little lap dog. The arena walls are too high to jump or climb over. Should have thought of that. I consider my best non-magical options, even though my magic roils and bubbles, pleading to be free.
The worm burbles. It may be a little bastard, about the size of a wolf, but it’s still a BlightWorm. There’s shouting in the stands. I ignore it: I’ve got to figure out a way out of the arena without flinging around more crystal for the Warden.
The Colonel is screaming in his ear, but the Warden is watching me. Expectant. Waiting.
Fuck this guy. I am not showing off for him, the military, the nobles. I am not making a single bit of crystal more until I know why I can do it at all—and what the Warden wants with it.
“Pebbles!” Smoke shouts as he springs down into the ring, light and easy. He pulls off his amulet and tosses it over his head, and the eagle soars into the air, then screeches down towards the BlightWorm. “Get over here!”
“What are you doing?!” I sprint towards him with the puppy while his familiar taunts the confused Blightling.
Deadpan, he says, “Saving the dog, of course.”
Rot leans down over the edge of the arena. “Hurry, that bird won’t distract it long!”
“Catch!” I throw the dog at Rot.
He catches it and drops it by his feet, then shoves his huge hand back down towards us. Smoke crouches and laces his hands together. I sprint, jump, and he hefts me up. I grab Rot’s fingers, and his grip closes over mine.
“Hold on!” Rot shouts.
The worm proceeds with a sloppy, chubbly charge. Damn, those things are fast when they’re little. “Oh shit.”
Smoke grabs my ankle. “Rot, heave!”
Rot yanks back with all his strength. I sail over his shoulder and land in the stands in an inelegant pile, while Smoke somersaults and lands neatly on one leg, arms outstretched.
His eagle gracefully comes to roost on his wrist.
“Nice,” I say, on my back between two rows of benches.
The BlightWorm slams into the side of the arena and bellows, then there is a sequence of mushy bashes as it rams its business end repeatedly into the side of the arena. Blight globs go flying. Nobles scream. Military shout. The Aegis team springs into action. The little dog races over to lick my face, tail wagging.
Hey, at least someone thinks I did a good job.
10
BLOOD
Blood picks up the little lapdog from its frenzied gratitude. It squirms and licks him too. He holds it away from his face and shoves it at the terrified noble fop who had brought it.
“Here,” Blood says. “Return this to your sister. I’m sure she will be grateful to have it back.”
The noble slowly takes it and tucks it under his arm. The dog, unaware that the man had just tried to turn it into a monster, barks happily and wags its tail so hard its entire body wriggles.
The Aegis team is working on the infuriated BlightWorm, which seems to have realized its tasty snacks escaped. It is too little to do any damage to them up in the safety of the seats, but the little worm’s existence is troubling enough. Blood watches for a dispassionate second, ignoring the furious officers who are squabbling amongst themselves like a bunch of confused wet hens while the nobles practically swoon.
Blood casts his gaze to the side, eyeing the Warden. This had not gone according to the Warden’s plan, but the Warden’s plan had also not been a simple demonstration for curious nobility and their military ass-kissers. This isn’t a mix of some perverse court game and sickening sport, but the Warden had had some other objectives. And what is that Crystal team doing here, anyway?
“You’ll hang for this, Crystal!” one of the lesser officers shouts. He’s some puffed-up noble brat with a rapier at his side. He’s never seen a battle, smelled one, and probably never actually drawn that rapier.
Instead of her usual bruised, sad flinch when someone speaks harshly to her, Pebbles’ expression hardens and sharpens, and is that a smirk hovering around her lips?
It is.
Oh, this cunning little Mage. Blood suppresses a grin—he cannot be seen to find this all that entertaining—and dusts off his shoulder. “She’s not military.”
The officer sputters.
Blood clarifies, because clearly this little toad hasn’t been paying attention. “She served a one year contract in the mediums, was discharged, returned to the Academy, and never graduated. Since she’s not military, and not an Imperial Mage, I’m not sure what you’re going to charge her with.”
The Colonel’s already-closed jaw screws even tighter. His blood burns with anger and humiliation. All these toads have just realized their mistake: they’d given orders to a civilian.
Ah, well, you tell someone you aren’t one of us long enough and they take it to heart and never forget it, then stick it in your asshole when you least expect it.
Cunning, cunning, sly little Pebbles. He casts a glance at her. Smoke and Rot are helping her up, while that cursed Atrament ghoul watches with far too much interest.
“You were told to stay in your place, Fell,” the Colonel growls.
Blood tucks his hands behind his back. “I participated in the rescue of an errant civilian, sir. She’s hapless and flings herself into danger like an idiot.”
Pebbles shoots him a glare while she dusts off her ass. It is a lovely ass.
He needs to not think about her ass. Or the light gleam of her Crystal-laced skin, or the strange sensation of her blood, or all the mysteries bound up in that multicolored hair, or how she seems to know him, and when she’s near he senses her too close for comfort.
She can’t be a Shard, but she’s still a spectacular pain in the balls.
He turns back to the Colonel, trying not to seem too defiant, and knowing he’s failing. The Colonel’s contempt is in his blood, the curl of his lip, the pooling of his blood in his muscles and against his skin as his body gets ready for a fight. “We couldn’t permit a Blightling to eat her Aether. Quick action was required. Sir.”
The Colonel snarls, “Dismissed.”
“Sir.” Blood salutes and stalks back to his team. He shoves down the desire to spit. He hasn’t gotten this far because he lacked self-control. He knows exactly who he is to these people: a Fell. A gutter-rat. Crotch fruit. A truffle-hunting pig, and when the pig stops finding truffles or is a problem, the pig becomes bacon.
It’s a delicate game, exerting just enough force to compel a measure of respect and dignity while not overly offending the high-breds. It is all a transaction, and he’s playing the very long game: the game where he ends up a peer. The game where these men have to grit out Lord and call him by his actual name. The game where his children marry their sons and daughters.
It’s easy to swallow his gob because it doesn’t matter unless he lets the insult matter, and he learned years earlier getting pissed on by nobles doesn’t matter. They want it to matter, but it doesn’t. It’s a momentary insult and slight.
The trick of the game is knowing the difference between a momentary insult, and one that’s going to cause lasting damage.
Most people would be surprised at how little causes lasting damage. But being able to sense the rattle in someone’s blood, their own anxiety, the difference between the flush of true anger and the flush of insult and damaged pride?
It’s like being handed the keys to a secret kingdom.
Pebbles is a strange exception. She is like cool water, the light of the full moon, the smooth beauty of gemstones.
Atrament holds his gaze as he re-approaches.
An unfamiliar sharp-edged emotion cuts into his chest. Pebbles is intrigued by the ghoul. She shouldn’t be. She’s got too much of a knack for getting into trouble.
The sharp-edged emotion bludgeons him, telling him to yank her away from Atrament and hold her close.
Jealousy?
It can’t be. He hasn’t been jealous about anything since he was an idiot first-year in the Academy. And he’s never been jealous over a woman. There have always been as many women as he’s cared to entertain. Genteel ladies love bedding a rough, dangerous Fell with a flawless since of discretion and place. In the Academy, he’d never paraded his paramours around. He’d never wanted the connection to any of them.
His paramours thought they used him? He used them. To observe. To learn. To get off. He can’t even remember any of their names, and very few faces. There were some men in there too, who wanted to experiment with what a Blood Fell could do to a cock. He’d practiced on them as well, like some sick Researcher cutting into Blightlings and bodies.
He’d never been stupid enough to think he had meant anything to them. He was a horse they’d wanted to take for a ride, or an interesting toy to play with and discard. He’d used them to learn, polish his court skills, his enunciation, mimic noble behavior. He especially enjoyed it when one of them wanted to “school” him, like he was some stray dog they’d taken in off the street that needed to be housebroken.
His team is all that matters. That’s why he is the one who speaks when senior officers addresses them. The others can’t mimic the proper balance of groveling and dignity that appeases the high-bred officers without losing all respectability. He’ll care when this is over, with a hero’s medal on his chest, a commendation, and a fucking peerage.
When they are all out.
It’s a dream of every single Fell brat that gets rounded up and taken to those feral orphanages, but surviving long enough to retire is difficult enough. Earning enough glory along the way to wrestle a noble title from the Empress? Damn near impossible.
But that’s because other Fells don’t have a plan. Comes with being raised on the streets. Never enough of a future beyond the next meal, the next grift, the next night you might not survive. Brats that planned and dreamed were beaten on the head to get the dreams out. That’s the thing about being born down in the muck: it isn’t Blight, but it wants you to stay in there with it.
