The Hidden Twin (10 page)

“The problem?” I give him a stony glare, feeling three eyes on me all the while. Now I lean in close to my kidnapper and whisper, “The problem is that you're on fire.”

In an instant, I grab Bonner's hands and permit a small burst of flame to pounce through my fingertips. He screeches—dramatically, I think, since it's just a small fire—and staggers, falling to the ground. “By all the—! What did you
do
?” He pats his raw hands against the greasy black dirt of this back lane.

For a moment, I think I hear more raspy coughing from the old man, but when I turn, his pink eyes are sparkling. He is laughing. I meet his gaze and can't help but laugh along with him.

Bonner rises drunkenly. “Don't—don't you dare run, you monster!”

I cross my arms. “I won't run. Not while my freedom is payment for my sister's life. So you can keep your bloody hands to yourself.”

His eyes flash. “You're going to die, redwing. The Beautiful Ones are going to rip your flesh from your bones.”

“If it keeps you away from my sister, let them do it,” I say. “That's what love is, I suppose.”

“Love!” He looks genuinely astonished. “Love is protecting innocent people from evil! As if a thing like you could know anything about love.”

The skin on my face turns cold. I almost don't recognize the fearsome voice that comes from my own throat. “What I do know,” I snarl, “is that I could kill you right now if I wanted.
And it would be easy.”

We set off again, and Bonner doesn't say another word. I glance back at the ragged man, but he and his companion have closed their eyes. They sit motionless in the dirty fog, and for all I know, they may go on like that until the end of time.

Now I have complicated matters. We step into a wide, noisy street and the just-brighter-than-shadows diffusion of light that passes for sunshine here. Since I did not kill Bonner in secret, I'll have to escape once he has deposited me at the Temple, and pray I can make it back to Saltball Street to warn Jey before he realizes I'm missing. A slightly more delicate operation, I admit.

Moments later, we finally ascend the marble steps that lead to the great Temple of Rasus. The vestibule beyond the front doors is cavernous enough; I can't imagine what the actual sanctuary is like. Bonner bows low as we enter, then gives me a look. I give him a look right back, all venom.
No way. I'm not bowing.
He squints as though he should have known I wouldn't have the decency to thank the god who is about to smite me. Then he motions for me to follow him, even though that's just what I've been doing for the last half hour. My work boots clop on the clean floor, white marble tiles that gleam with patches of sapphire, gold, and ruby from the light shining through stained glass windows.

A purple-robed priest, a rank above the blue lower priests, stands near the entrance to the sanctuary, but Bonner ignores him and pulls me to the side. There we wait for what feels like an eternity. Priests and civilians come and go, but Bonner pays them no attention. Eventually, another purple priest emerges from the sanctuary—the same one from the Jade Bridge and the murdered man—and Bonner is finally interested. They speak in low tones while I pretend to give a critical eye to the celestial scene carved into one of the vestibule's sandstone pillars. The priest eyes me, then disappears through a modest door I can just catch sight of behind a large gold curtain. I wonder how long it will be before the Temple guards arrive.

It is not long.

*   *   *

Like any self-respecting temple, this one has a dungeon. I'm sure they have another name for it, like Righteous Correctional Detainment Area and Exercise Facility. But as someone who has read more than her fair share of penny pulps, I recognize the iron bars, dirty stone floors, and pieces of equipment that look extremely specialized without the nature of their specializations being immediately evident. The dim light from a few fat candles set in the walls creates the kind of gloom that gives rise to unwarranted panic.

Or completely warranted panic.

Bonner was ushered away, the purple priest's hand on his back, a couple floors up. The guards and I continued to descend until bright gaslight, marble, and gold velvet were replaced with yellow flickers, bare stone, and suspicious stains.

My feet still burn, toying with invisible tendrils of flame that snake up from the earth under the floor, but as far as I can tell, escape is impossible from this room. One door, one staircase leading up, and probably fifty people I'd have to incinerate between here and the outside. Not ideal. I'll have to wait a bit longer.

The Temple's one-size-fits-all iron collar is fastened heavily around my neck. The attached chain must weigh nearly as much as I do, and I hunch forward to avoid it pulling my throat back and strangling me. And I realize I may be a blight on society, but is a chair too much to ask?

The two black-clad guards, a rugged, bearded man and a skinny, hollow-eyed woman, scowl at me from under their spiked iron helmets—representative of the sun's rays, an idea that would work beautifully if the sun were black and terrifying.

“All right, what are you in for?” the bearded guard asks. “Fabrication or heresy?”

I frown. “They don't tell you much, do they?”

“Fornication?” the hollow-eyed one offers.

“Now you're making me blush.” I cross my arms. “Do you really not know why I'm here? How are you ever going to torture me properly?” Jey would be proud of how completely I'm concealing my fright. Well, almost. Just have to keep that loud heartbeat in check.

Sweat drips down the sides of my face. The dungeon is stifling. But the anticipation of my punishment, the mystery of it, is the worst part. My insides feel like they're being squeezed by the very air in here.

The strange thing is how unafraid the guards are. Here they have a
redwing,
an ancient creature of evil and destruction, in captivity, and there are only two of them? As I look at their expressionless faces and spiritless movements, I sense an air of mundanity about the whole thing. According to legend, I want nothing more than the death of every human being in Caldaras, and I have the supernatural power to do it. Don't they care? Shouldn't they be terrified?

Not that I'm feeling very supernatural right now. I am hot and sticky and nervous. I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep my jaw from shaking.

The bearded guard says, “All right, then, off with her clothes.”

“Now, wait a minute—” I start, but the hollow-eyed guard already has her bony fingers on the buttons of my green gardener's jumpsuit.

I can't believe I was ever enthralled by human interaction, ever wanted someone to touch me. Human interaction is terrible. I elbow the bony fingers off, and the bearded guard says, “Ah, don't rip your suit!”

They're planning to—to I don't know, and I don't want to think about it, and all he can say is
don't rip your suit
? Does that mean the priests would be angry if they knew what these two guards are up to?

The bearded guard goes to a low shelf and retrieves a nasty-looking stritch whip. Sweat runs in rivulets down my temples now, but I don't move.

The hollow-eyed guard puts her hands on her hips. “You want a lash across the face, miss?” she says. “Stritches are big birds. You know what a whip can do to a little thing like you? Slice your nose right off your face, or pop an eye out of its socket.”

“I'm not little,” I say, but the guard just puts a finger in her mouth and makes a
pop!
sound.

The bearded guard looks askance at her. “Rasus, what kind of mind do you have? Stop being creepy.” He turns to me. “That said, miss, I will ruin your face if you don't cooperate.”

My throat tightens. Cruelty is much creepier wrapped in politeness. I edge away from the bearded guard into the shadows between candles.

“We need you to remove that uniform, miss,” the bearded guard says. “Just the top bit is fine.”

“No.” My hand flies to the topmost button of the slit that runs down one side of the jumpsuit's front. I take another step back.

The hollow-eyed guard sighs and gives the other one a weary glance. “I'll give her the choker.” The bearded guard pauses, but then nods, candlelight flickering in his eyes.

The choker is not creatively named. My collar is designed with a clever spring and lever mechanism that someone so inclined can use to apply and relieve pressure to my throat. The hollow-eyed guard holds the trigger, leaning casually against the blackened stone wall as though she has better things to do.

She only has to squeeze once. The shadowy dungeon becomes a haze of painful red sparks dancing before my eyes, and I know I would rather remove the jumpsuit than get choked again.

I don't give the bearded guard the satisfaction of undoing my buttons himself. I slide my arms out of the sleeves and let the top half of the suit fall. I know I should feel shy—I know about modesty and nakedness—but truthfully, nothing feels as shocking or invasive to me as simply being seen, acknowledged, clothes or not. Even now, with half the jumpsuit around my waist, what bothers me most is that these two guards know I exist.

“Turn around,” the bearded guard says, businesslike. Hesitantly, I turn. I feel him approach from behind, hear the stritch whip dragging on the gritty floor behind me. Then he pauses. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“I don't think so,” I say. “Unless I really don't get it.”

“What's the matter?” the other guard asks. I try to turn back as she crosses to us, but the bearded guard pushes me back in place.

The hollow-eyed guard runs her hand down my back. She grabs a fat candle off the wall and brings it closer, illuminating my thousand scars. “What in wet hell is this?” she says.

Don't these people
attend
Temple? Do they know
anything
?

“These scars are old,” the bearded guard says. “Look, they're all healed up.”

“Damn it all.” The hollow-eyed guard traces the ridges on my back with her finger.

“The problem with this organization—and I've been saying this for years—” the bearded guard starts.

“I know, I know,” the hollow-eyed guard jumps in. “I know what you're going to say.”

“A lack of communication,” the bearded guard says.

“Would it kill them, I mean would it
kill
them to keep track of these things?” The hollow-eyed guard sighs heavily. “I was eating my evening meal, you know.” She moves away from me, and I turn around, the heavy chain swinging awkwardly.

“I know,” the bearded guard says, then looks at me. “All right, get dressed. Hurry now. The Onyx Staff wants to see you.”

Well,
I think as I start to do up my buttons,
this may have been the oddest torture session ever to take place in the Temple of Rasus.

*   *   *

The fearsome high priest known as the Onyx Staff is probably the last person in Caldaras City most people would expect to find reading aloud from
Merry Mother May's Big Book of Fairy Stories for Well-Behaved Children.
But I am harder to surprise than most people. I don't even raise an eyebrow when he starts in on “The Tale of the Blind Miller” as we stand before a group of twenty or so priests of varying rank in an almost oppressively warm candlelit room.

Not that the Onyx Staff would have made a good First School teacher. There is no comfort in his deep voice as he reads to the gathering. “But the Miller,” he intones, “though he could not see the two men, was not fooled by their disguises, for he heard the likeness of their voices and knew them for
what they were
.” He gives me a hard stare clearly meant to be meaningful. From his perch on a high, wooden chair at one end of the small room, the Onyx Staff reminds me of an illustration of the wild raptors on the cliffs of Drush, their white feathers smoothed against the wind, their beaks dulled by the gritty air.

For all the stairs the guards and I climbed, we must be somewhere near the top of the Temple, but the room's one meager, brown window offers little insight into the world outside. The priests, their faces obscured by bandannas, are quiet. I don't look at them, these people who have nothing better to do today than watch this nonsense. Instead, I keep my eyes focused on the face of the Onyx Staff, his white hair shining in the gleam of the small window. The light does little to soften his cruel edges.

I stand at the other end of the room with my wrists chained to the floor. Indistinct shapes crowd the room's shadows, spiky iron devices and asymmetrical structures I don't really want to think about. Behind me, the wall is carved with a relief of Rasus, the many-handed sun. “Are you familiar with the story of the blind miller, Beloved?” the Onyx Staff asks.

I clench my fingers. The iron cuffs are starting to chafe. “Yes, Your Benevolence.” My voice is muffled by the still, hot air of this cramped room. “My father read me fairy tales just like everyone else's parents did. And he did the voices much better than you, although I'm certainly willing to hear your Harko the Happy Bat if you'd like another shot.”

Someone snickers, but quickly stifles it. Maybe some of them will feel bad for me.
Hey, remember that girl? She was feisty, wasn't she? I mean, unspeakably evil, yes, but haven't you always wanted to give the high priest a bit of lip?

The Onyx Staff continues to stare at me with all the warmth of a dead maggot. “The miller in this story discovers the secret the merchant and the tailor are hiding,” he says. “What is that secret, Beloved?”

“I plead silence, Your Benevolence,” I say, “so that I might not spoil the ending for these good priests.”

Scattered laughter bubbles from underneath a few bandannas. Nervous eyes glint in the gloom. Are the faithful starting to wonder if the Onyx Staff will raise the actual onyx staff he holds in his right hand and bash my head in with it before a verdict can be reached?