How close are we to vanishing?
With that singular thought, he plunged his hand into the pot and scooped around, swirling the markers as best he could. Even tiny stones were heavy en masse. Then, keeping his head up and looking toward the frescoes of Gylindora and Caratacus, he grasped a pebble and pulled his arm free.
Refusing to look at it, Mawyndulë handed the pebble to Imaly. She took the stone in solemn reverence as if he’d just pulled the heart from an innocent child.
Maybe I have.
Imaly held it up between her fingers, showing it to the audience. “Does anyone find fault in this decision?”
Heads shook, but no words were uttered.
“The name I now read will be regarded as a great hero, one who will give their life to save us all.” Imaly brought the stone close to her face and focused on it. She nodded once with a frown. “Amidea, of the Gwydry.”
A scream came from the crowd. Heads jerked. Everyone turned around to witness the commotion. Guards were already present—palace guards.
Amidea was middle-aged, somewhere in her fifteen hundreds, a lithe worker with braided hair and terrified eyes. She screamed over and over again and kicked her legs in protest as the lion-helmeted soldiers drew her away with hooked arms. One of her braids came undone as she thrashed. By the time they had hauled her from the plaza, she had gone limp, her toes dragging on the marble.
The gathered crowd was silent once more, but the mood was clearly lighter than before. Relief reigned. The hand of Death had plucked someone else.
Imaly hated herself, but she couldn’t help feeling relieved. The lottery could have picked anyone, and she knew a lot of people. She didn’t know Amidea. She was Gwydry—a worker bee—who didn’t buzz in the same hive as the Curator of the Aquila. The Gwydry were on the bottom, but it wasn’t supposed to be that way. Gylindora had imagined a world where everyone was equal, but she might as well have imagined a reality where oil and water mixed and cream didn’t rise to the top.
Maybe Amidea was a wonderful person, kind, loving, and always available to help her neighbors. But Imaly didn’t want to think of her that way. Instead, she conjured the notion that Amidea was a terrible person. Perhaps that was the reason Ferrol had singled her out. Perhaps Amidea secretly kicked dogs and tortured squirrels. That would make it okay, make it acceptable.
I’m so full of crap, she thought while trudging home through the light snow, which was struggling to survive for more than a few seconds after hitting the ground. Imaly had made a life arguing in public, oftentimes creating sense where there was none. She used logic even when building arguments on sand, and her expertise made her points appear solid. Swaying opinion was a talent she had always excelled at. The problem was, she knew all her tricks—there was no way to fool herself.
This is all because of me. I did it. I got Suri to teach Lothian about making dragons even though I knew innocents would die. I thought it was the right decision, but seeing them drag Amidea out kicking and screaming like that is more than . . .
There was blood on her hands now. She’d have a lot more before this was finished.
“Who will it be?” Makareta asked when Imaly entered her overcrowded home.
Once upon a time, she could count on the restorative balm of solitude. Now she lived with a headstrong premillennial and a Rhune Miralyith.
Life is absurd.
“A Gwydry,” the Curator said as she hung her cloak on a peg near the door. She missed her mark, and the garment fell. Imaly stared at the hook as if it had joined the rest of the world in tormenting her. She left the cloak on the floor and walked toward the hearth where a dwindling fire burned. The house was cold. Makareta couldn’t be bothered to add more wood.
For Ferrol’s sake, no! That would require doing something useful with her hands.
“What’s their name?” Makareta asked. She sounded worried, as if it might have been her who had been picked, an odd tone, since she was already living under a death sentence.
Imaly raised a brow. “You care about a Gwydry?”
Suri appeared then, wearing Imaly’s blue asica, which had been tailored to fit. She crept out from the direction of the nook. The Rhune preferred the big windows that opened to the outdoors. Despite Imaly’s initial fears of two powerful rival Artists of different cultures trapped together, the two had gotten on like sisters; each acted as a calming influence on the other.
“Who is it?” Makareta insisted.
“Amidea.”
Makareta thought a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t know her.”
“I wouldn’t think you would.” Imaly rubbed her arms, trying to scrub off the chill.
Suri overheard their conversation. Her brows, which were covered in queer markings, drew together in concern. “Does the fane know the person who is going to be sacrificed?”
Imaly took a log from the bin and added it to the fire. “Wouldn’t think so. I mean, he may know of her. I did. I’ve certainly seen her face before, might have even heard her name. After a few centuries, you get to know almost everyone, but if you don’t see them often, it’s easy to forget. Still, I highly doubt the fane knows Amidea. I can’t imagine—I mean, how hard would it be to execute someone that you actually know?”
“Suri?” Makareta said with enough concern to make Imaly turn.
The Rhune bolted for the door. Finding the latch, she threw it wide and rushed out.
“Suri!” Imaly shouted. “What are you doing?”
Suri ran as fast as she could.
Snow was falling, so it must have been cold, but she didn’t feel it. The world was bright in a colorless, hazy way, but she hardly noticed. She ran for the palace—the one place she knew how to get to. Suri assumed that was where she would find the fane. If she had stopped to think, Suri might have realized the fane wouldn’t wish to create a dragon inside a building. What she was confident about was that the fane would perform the act immediately. Making the victim wait was cruel. Suri didn’t hold Lothian in high regard, but she didn’t think he would stoop that low.
She never made it to the palace.
A Fhrey dressed in blue and gold caught her before she reached the plaza. A number of armor-clad soldiers were out, and it was one of them who stopped her. Perhaps they would beat her, take out their frustrations on the only Rhune they could touch. This was why Imaly had warned her not to go out, but Suri had to try.
With a rough solid grip, the soldier held Suri by the wrist, but he didn’t otherwise hurt her.
“Let me go!” she shouted, and to her surprise, he did.
“Can’t come this way.” The Fhrey shoved her back a step. “By order of the fane, the plaza is closed.”
She watched as the guard grimaced and rubbed his hand on his thigh.
It’s the new clothes. He’s only now realizing who I am, what he grabbed.
From behind the guard and in the direction of the plaza, a horrible scream rose. The guard turned to look, and Suri darted past him. She jumped the evergreen hedge and the stone benches and made it all the way to the bricks before the Fhrey caught her again. But it was too late for the guard and for Amidea.
The fane stood in the empty plaza. His cream-colored asica was stained with bloody handprints near the neckline and around the wrists. He wiped the blood from his face with the sleeves, doing a poor job. There was a surprisingly large, dark-red pool. A body lay in its center, a sword on her chest.