Incite, page 15
The nobody girl in a maroon cloak squeezes herself through the shoulders of the horrified onlookers. She pops free of the dense mass. Stumbling a step forward her eyes dilate as they take in the scene before her. Her body reacts on instinct and leaps back against the wall of people.
With his knee digging into a man’s spine the guard in his early twenties, Jerrad, wears a cross expression as he binds the man’s hands behind his back with rope.
The man cries out in pain as Jerrad's knee bores into his vertebrae, “Stop, please! It hurts!”
“What does it matter, you’re going to hang soon anyway.” Jerrad spits, only pressing harder.
A whaling cry escapes the building with the butcher’s trade crest above the door. Clyde, from Amiria’s class, emerges from the building holding a young woman by her hair.
Tears stream down her blotchy red face, her legs frantically kicking in a desperate attempt to find footing. Breaking fingernails dig into the gloved hand controlling her head as he drags her across the threshold. With the rise of a lip, Clyde throws the woman down the steps without a care.
Landing on her shoulder and face, she skids to a stop. A man launches from the crowd, “KATHERINE!”
“STAY BACK!” Jerrad, still kneeling on the man, rises to his feet drawing his sword. He steps between the citizen and the woman named Katherine who looks up at him with a muddy face.
“This is all of them,” Clyde announces as two more people are pushed out of the doorway by a third guard.
They tumble to the ground beside Katherine. Instinctively they crawl together, cowering in a huddled pile like cornered animals.
Clyde looks down the bridge of his nose at them. “Run and you’ll die here in the streets.”
One of the men begins to stand himself up. Katherine grabs his hand with begging eyes for him to stop. Amiria tries to step back, her body already pressing against the wall of people. Unsuccessful in her escape, she tugs her hood down, further obstructing her face.
The man stares up at the cumulus clouds far past the crowd and the rooftops, a current of wind far above them pushes the clouds along. They will travel over the castle, over the mountains, and out across the ocean. Far away into places unknown.
He looks back down at Katherine’s pleading expression. With an accepting smile, he lunges. The force of his hand ripping from Katherine’s drags her back to the ground. She reaches out again. Her hand stops as time slows, a frozen claw holding nothing but air.
In a rolling sweep across the crowd like a shock wave starting at the center, the crowd’s curiosity turns to terror.
The air escapes from Amiria’s lungs. She stands there mortified.
She can’t move. Petrified as the point of the broadsword protruding out from just below the man’s sternum is barely even half an arm’s length away. She watches as the man coughs blood spraying specks of scarlet across her face. Gargling, he chokes on the warm blood overflowing from his mouth.
Tipping backward without the wall behind her anymore, she lands in the mud of the road. Her fingertips dig into the saturated dirt as she pulls and kicks herself back, unable to take her eyes off the dying man.
The frenzied crowd scatters in every direction.
Everyone is screaming.
Ear-splitting sounds rupture her ability to hear as her vision tunnels in on the man. Someone’s husband, someone's father. It took decades to grow into the man who woke up today and seconds to ensure he wouldn’t ever again.
A middle-aged woman wails in heartbreaking agony as she calls out the dying man’s name.
Jerrad rips the sword free of the man’s torso. His limp body folds as he slowly slumps to the ground with agonizing groans. Bent in an abnormal way he stares up at her with earnest eyes as the life in them dims. The blood on his tunic blooms like a spring rose.
Kneeling, Jerrad wipes his sword clean on the dead man’s tunic.
Clyde stands over the third man who is protectively cradling Katherine. The woman overtaken with emotion has inverted into a comatose state of panic. Grabbing the back of the man’s tunic as the other guard grabs the woman, they tear the two apart.
The man screams profanities at Clyde while his arms are wrenched behind his back.
“Shut up!” Clyde yells, punching the man in the side of the face as he struggles to turn and look up at him.
Blood bubbles and drips from his mouth as he spits out a tooth knocked loose into the dirt.
The woman stares blankly, her mind already given up as her wrists are bound together.
Amiria finds her footing and climbs herself up off the ground to join the crowd fleeing down the market road. Her hood flies back as it's caught by the wind revealing her. She doesn’t care, no one is watching her. She is another citizen running away for safety.
They need her, they are defenseless, but she is useless. She can’t help them. She can’t save them.
Skidding around a corner, she dives into a narrow alley barely able to fit her slender frame. Her forearms and palms drag against the walls catching herself between them. The sleeves of her cotehardie protect her forearms from grinding against the daubed mud walls as her momentum drags her down.
Coughing, she leans against the wall choking on her own breaths. Her trembling knees begin to buckle and barely lucid, she presses her scraped palms against the adjacent wall to hold herself stead. With her mind already numbing, her unblinking eyes stare at the calloused hands pressed against the white wall now stained with mildew from the everlasting shadows.
A drop of drying blood leaves behind a flaking trail across the back of her hand.
How much blood is on her hands? How many men has she stolen from families who love them back in Uviktiland?
The woman’s wail as she cries for her loved one drums against her skull consuming her thoughts. Her fingernails claw the wall as she slides down into a squat, her legs no longer able to support her. She rests her forehead against the wall suddenly sick.
She is not like them, is she? She does not fight to impose power over the weak. She fights to protect, right? She lives to protect them, but she did nothing to stop their murder. She has sworn to herself she would not bear arms against the innocent. In the end, she ran away. Failing to stand up and protect those in need means she is as guilty as those who raised their swords against them.
If there is a criminal on these streets, it is her. She wears the mask of loyalty to King Dietrich, but she has defiled her contract. She raised her head meeting Wyverna’s eye as she burned their laws. She has not been sentenced, instead, she has only been rewarded.
Still palming the wall with her stinging hands, she pulls herself up. With weak knees and boots sinking into the muck she drags herself through the rest of the alley.
Leaning out of the shadows on the parallel street she scans her surroundings. Everyone’s doors and windows shut. Crows have replaced the people spreading out across the deserted road picking at the evidence of recent human activity of dropped crumbs and grains.
She is on the bakery’s street. It's only a couple of blocks away.
Twenty-One
Lifting off his seat, Giles jumps spooked as a familiar girl plows her way through the bakery door and slams it behind her, “Amiria! What is the emergency!”
Her back slides down the door as she slumps into a seated position. Her legs sprawled out in front of her. Her voice is distant, “They killed a man. Killed him. Right there in the middle of the street. No judgment, no trial. Just a man and a sword.”
“They found more, haven't they?” Giles starts.
Amiria tilts her chin up confused. Removing himself from his seat, Giles kneels beside her. His voice is soft as if he is talking to a child, “People have a new sense of courage. They are starting to secretly practice other trades and arts.”
“Why?”
Giles frowns. He shifts himself against the door and sits beside Amiria. He leans his head back talking up to the ceiling, “I think Stirling started something that can’t be undone.”
“That stupid idiot.” She thumps the back of her head against the door, joining Giles in staring up at the cross beams, “He set a fire and left us to burn.”
They sit there momentarily listening to the emptiness of the street. Still, without taking his eyes off the ceiling, he informs, “You know you have some red on your face.”
Her fingertips run over dried liquid, pieces flake and fall from her cheek. In a moment of fret, she desperately whips her face with the fabric of her cloak. With her face still buried in the thick fabric, her body shudders with tears that will never come.
Giles can barely hear her as she mumbles, “I was unsure of where else to go. Mr. Bakere, I let that man die. I stood there and did nothing. It’s my fault, too. Not just Stirling’s, I’m responsible for their deaths.”
“It’s neither of your faults,” Giles places his hand on her arm cradled around her head, “You’re not making anyone do anything. These people are making their own choices well aware of the consequences.”
She doesn’t lift her head as she replies with a grunt.
Giles sighs, “Let’s change the subject. Why were you down in the market today?”
Amiria groans.
“Not good, huh?”
Her voice is muffled by her woolen cloak, “My father, he has chosen to give my hand away. He didn’t even consult me with his choice. He went ahead and offered me up.” Giles nods, not wanting to interrupt. She peeks up from her cloak. “I’m conflicted now.”
“About what? The marriage?”
“The guy.”
“Why is that?”
“I’ve despised him for so many years because I’ve thought he was a certain way, but now I’ve seen a new side of him and I have—” she pauses as if the next words pain her to speak, “Trouble with opening up to people on an emotional level.”
“You open up to me perfectly fine.”
“Only you and one other, but this guy. He isn’t who I’ve been picturing myself marrying, but...at least someone wants to.”
“Who did you picture yourself marrying?” Giles asks, watching her from the corner of his eye.
Amiria blushes, refusing to make eye contact, “No one in particular.”
Giles smiles knowingly, “Since there is no one in particular, can you ever see yourself developing feelings for this boy?”
“I don’t know, I hate him, but he’s been sweet lately. But I don’t want to marry him, but he does show me affection,” Amiria says, arguing with herself.
Giles reaches over, putting his arm around her, “Let me give you some fatherly advice. Never try to force anything, especially when it comes to feelings. They will either develop on their own time or not at all. It’s not fair to either of you to lie to yourself. It’ll only end in resentment. I tried to force Stirling to be someone he’s not and now I’ve lost him.”
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” Amiria says, throwing her arms down to the ground in a small tantrum.
“Does anyone really know what they are doing? Don’t give up because you’ve hit some bumps in the road. The road is full of them and it’s the only way to get to your destination. So, adjust your wheel and keep going.”
Amiria pouts, “I don’t like it.”
“None of us like it. Welcome to growing up,” he shakes her gently. “You seem like you can use some rest before heading home.”
Slipping his arm free he stands up and offers out his hand, “You can use Stirling’s old bed. It’s right upstairs in the corner of the room.”
Amiria accepts his hand allowing him to help her to her feet. She has never been to the second floor of the bakery before. She stands at the bottom of the staircase staring up the steps, each with its worn groove in the center where Giles steps every day.
She rests her hands on the railing and looks back at Giles.
“It’s all right, you can go up by yourself. Just let me know when you’re leaving before you do. Now rest up,” Giles assures.
With a deep breath, she ascends the stairs.
Reaching the top, she scans the small room. A small fire able to fit a single pot, a wooden table with bench seats, storage crates, and almost bare shelving units. She takes a step forward.
The wood creaks beneath her foot.
She strolls across the groaning wood to a stool sitting beneath the window sill. A thick layer of dust coats the top as if it hasn’t been touched in years. She runs her fingers along the window sill leaving behind her mark in the dust. She imagines Stirling daydreaming out of the window after being stuck in the bakery all day.
A pang forms deep in her chest.
She turns to a mattress which is no more than a linen sheet sewn closed and stuffed with straw. She can see from the open end strands of straw still littering the floor from recently being changed. Shaking her head, she shoves away images of Stirling curling up after a day of training with Ignis.
Exhausted, her body collapses into the blankets and curls into a ball inside her cloak.
Twenty-Two
Feet barely moving, Stirling turns in a circle. He is in the dining hall. Through the windows, it's darker outside than a new moon. He stands in the center lit by a faint glow emanating from the smooth surface beneath his feet. Colored capes worn by the racers surround him.
“What do you want from me?” his voice quivers.
He has nowhere to back up, nowhere to run.
The men’s mouths stretch back to a gruesome smile touching their ears, their pupiless eyes close into bowing slits.
The masses begin to snicker, their uncanny laughs slowly escalate into sinister cackles around him. Faces distort and stretch into unnatural and obscene angles. The distinct features fade and morph into ghostly silhouettes in the colors of their capes.
The roof of the hall lifts, expanding up as they grow to towering heights above him. Their laughing faces are carved into their flat shadow-like bodies.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!” Stirling screams covering his face.
Something loops around his neck. Startled, he pulls his hands away to see a scratchy braided rope strung around his collarbone. He spins to see Merek standing behind him. The other end of the rope is held mercilessly in his hand. Stirling’s eyes follow the rope up to the rafters’ stories above.
Before Stirling can yell for him to stop, Merek yanks down on the rope.
Stirling gasps awake clawing at his neck. He is lying beside Ignis in the stables. His muscles relax, his arms falling limp onto his chest. His heart, filled with adrenaline, continues to run circles.
Checking around the room from his current position he makes sure they are still alone. Grabbing the feathers of Ignis’ wing he pulls it, tenting himself in.
Twenty-Three
The light of the setting sun turns the window a fiery orange.
“Where am I?” Amiria utters, drowsily waking up in an unfamiliar room.
Her eyes focus on her surroundings. She can feel the icy presence in the room. The air inside the four walls grows colder each passing year without a family’s warmth. A stool sitting in the window’s sill shadow once let a small boy escape to his dreams.
“Oh,” she remembers.
Sitting halfway up her disheveled hair falls out from her hood, partially obscuring her face. With only one eye she spots them. Small circles the size of the ball of a person’s foot can be seen worn into the wood grains. Insignificant tracks to the untrained eye.
She removes herself from the unforgotten bed. The old wood creaks under her light weight. Tilting her head, she shifts her foot to the worn print and presses down.
Silence.
She covers her face with a single hand as she laughs to herself.
Following the path of Stirling’s ghost, she crosses the room and heads back down the stairs.
Giles looks up from his plate of roasted potatoes and carrots. “How do you feel?”
“Better. Thanks for letting me rest here,” Amiria says, stepping off the last step.
“You will always have a place to lay your head here,” Giles reassures.
“Thank you, Mr. Bakere.” Her smile rises from the bottom of her heart.
Getting up to show her out, he stalls before opening the door, “Here, take this for the road.”
“What is it?” Amiria asks, eyeing the wrapped item in his hand.
“It’s bread, but I baked it with cheese inside. I think I’m onto something,” Giles gloats.
“Sounds delicious!” Amiria says gratefully accepting the package.
Giles opens the front door. “Take care Amiria, also try not to stress yourself out too much. I know Stirling isn’t here but try finding someone you can laugh with. That’s what is important in life.”
“Thank you,” she nods before ducking out into the evening air.
“Ms. Rey! Ms. Rey!” Mairead calls out in what is too loud to be called a whisper while rushing down the corridor as Amiria arrives back to her bed chamber in her team’s private wing of the castle. “I tried to tell him to leave, saying you weren’t here, but he insisted on waiting inside.” She says without taking a breath and plants herself in front of Amiria.
“Names, you need to tell me names. I don’t know who he is.” Amiria says without stopping and walks around her handmaiden.
Mairead turns and follows jogging slightly to catch up to Amiria’s pace.
“Calix,” she hisses into Amiria’s ear.
Amiria halts, her dropping stomach nailing her to the corridor floor. Squeezing her eyes shut she takes tentative steps forward until her feet place her in front of her door, a layered stone frame with a tapestry of her name and coat of arms. She lingers twirling a lock of hair around her fingers.
“I can tell him you won't be home because you were eaten by bees,” Mairead chimes.
Amiria shakes her head. “No, no I-I need to do this.” She smiles at her handmaiden. “Go rest up. I’ll be fine.”
Mairead gives Amiria an encouraging squeeze of the hand. Then Amiria is alone facing what lies behind her door.
