Chapter 1 #2
“Just what I’ve heard in the whispers around town.
You know how superstitious people are. They think if you talk about the Exalted you’ll somehow conjure them up in your bedroom or something.
” I roll my eyes. “All I know for certain is that they hold all the power in this country and are extremely rich. I’ve heard they possess some supposed magical abilities, but I doubt that part is true.
It’s probably just sleight of hand or tricks of the eye, preying on the gullible masses.
Magic isn’t real.” I wave my hand dismissively.
“Also, I know there were once six houses and now there are only five, but I don’t know why. ”
He grunts again, eyeing me closely. “You don’t believe in magic?”
“Do you? Have you ever seen it?”
He doesn’t answer.
“The Exalted never deign to honor us with their presence, so how could you have?” I shrug. “It’s all bullshit.”
“Language,” Feron grumbles. Sometimes I forget he can be a bit decorous. I bring the teacup to my lips to hide my smile. “If you think it’s all nonsense, why do you keep asking?”
“Just because I don’t believe in magic doesn’t mean I’m not curious.
Besides, Mama has this whole grudge around Maziar Montbeth and I want to understand it.
She thinks he killed Papa but I don’t see how that can be true.
I feel like if I understand the Exalted, maybe I’ll understand her better.
You’re the only one that I can ask Feron.
Please.” I reach out and touch his plump hand.
He sighs again. Clearly, I’m dancing on his last nerve, but I don’t know where else I’m going to get answers and I’m tired of being left alone with my curiosity.
“Legend goes that the Exalted lines were humans blessed by the gods above and the goddesses on earth. The only one said to object was Death below. They say he was so angry that he opened up the abysm on the spot where the gods, goddesses, and Exalted met somewhere in the Elvael Forest. The gods and goddesses ignored him, protected their chosen from his dissent, and gifted their Exalted golden talismans that gave them their powers.”
“Why them? Why were they chosen? What made them so special?”
“You’re guess is as good as mine on that, Vay. Most of the histories and stories from that time have been lost. The poorer people got, the less they cared about their past. They focused more on making it to tomorrow.”
“That’s why we’re called Condemned. Because we weren’t chosen by the gods.” It isn’t a question.
Feron nods. I’ve always hated the classification.
It makes me feel as though those of us forced to live in destitution in the Rookery are less than human.
Undeserving of the concern of the gods. If I believed in them, it would be a crushing weight knowing we were forsaken by them. Thankfully, I don’t.
“Do you know what the houses are?” Feron breaks through my wandering mind.
I shake my head. “All I know for sure is the House of Preservation and the House of Rejuvenation.” I lift my chin a little, proud that I at least know something.
In fairness, the only reason I know about either of them is because of my mother’s griping.
“The House of Preservation supplies weapons, armor, and protection to those able to pay. And the House of Rejuvenation is full of healers. I’ve heard they’re the best and can fix almost any ailment, not that any of us could afford them.
” I let my disdain for them show on my face.
You’d think the supposed gods would have gifted that particular talisman to a line that would help everyone, not just the ones with the means.
Feron nods. “The rest are Transfiguration, Necromancy, and Illusion. Divination was the sixth, but it died out.”
“How?”
He sighs again. “No one knows for certain. Though there are whispers.”
“What are the whispers?”
“That a patriarch of another house murdered the last surviving member of the House of Divination. There’s never been any proof, however.”
I chew my lip, thinking. “Why would a patriarch do that? I mean, I’m sure they’re not exactly an ethical group, but they wouldn’t really resort to murder, would they? They have too much to lose.”
Feron shrugs and takes another sip of his tea.
“What happened to the House of Divination’s talisman?” I ask.
“It disappeared after the last patriarch of the House of Divination died. Most believe it returned to the gods.” He stands, bumping the table with his round belly.
Most of the Condemned are frail and sickly, dangerously thin.
How Feron manages to keep up that gut I’ll never understand.
“Now, that’s enough questions for today. Get out and go home.”
I nod, still halfway lost in thought but aware enough to know not to push him.
I gulp down the last of my tea, burning my throat a little, and reach up and give him a quick peck on the cheek.
He grunts as he ushers me out the door, his face turning slightly pink.
I can’t contain my laugh as he slams the door in my face.
As I amble my way home in the near dark, dodging filthy, reeking bodies, most of whom will either be victim or villain tonight, something catches my eye.
A leaflet pasted on the crumbling plaster of one of the dilapidated buildings around Feron’s hut.
It’s the same leaflet I found in the drawer at home.
Stupid woman.
Clearly, my mother has been busier than I thought.
Too bad she can’t get busy and earn some coin.
Gods know I can’t. No one will hire me until I’m eighteen.
Unless I go to the bordellos but that’s not about to happen.
I rip down the leaflet, bringing some of the plaster with it.
I tear it into pieces, letting them blow away on the acrid breeze that’s a near-constant presence in the Rookery.
Walking the packed dirt paths on my way home, I survey the resourcefulness of the poor and the destitute.
The wood, tin, and plaster houses are all falling apart, but they have used whatever they can get their hands on to make them homier.
Old shirts sewn together to make curtains, homemade candles on windowsills, even a cracked wooden doghouse outside the front door of a leaning building, though there doesn’t seem to be a dog around.
Most families here can’t even afford to feed themselves, let alone a pet, so the absence of a dog isn’t surprising.
These people may not have much, but they make the most of what they do.
Mama and I are lucky. We live in one of the nicest row houses in the Rookery made of brick as opposed to scrap metal or wood.
It’s small and beginning to crumble, but it stays warm in the winter and we at least have beds, which is more than I can say for most in this borough.
Since my father died though, things have been getting worse.
The paint has begun to peel, the roof has begun to sag, and my mother had to sell nearly everything we owned to keep us fed and off the streets.
Except for the beds. I realized young that my father took care of us financially and when he died, there was nothing to keep us afloat.
My mother’s vendetta against Maziar Montbeth doesn’t pay the bills, and yet it takes up nearly all of her time.
If she’s not out preaching about how Maziar is a killer to anyone who will listen, she’s lying near catatonic in her bed.
I resent her for it. Before my father’s death, she was a very skilled healer.
She would help the Condemned who couldn’t afford to see a rejuvenator, which was nearly everyone, so she had her hands full.
I used to help her, and we would bond over salves, ointments, bindings, wound care, anything and everything to do with healing.
I loved it and my mother seemed happiest when she was helping people.
Those memories of my mother used to be painful, but I’ve long stopped yearning for her to be the way she was.
Still, I want to continue her work. Soon I’ll be eighteen and I can start a healing practice on my own.
No one will trust me alone before I’m that age.
Some archaic notion that women’s minds don’t fully develop until then.
Like surpassing a certain number suddenly makes you capable.
Boys, however, are considered fully grown and intelligent at sixteen.
Though, none of the boys I’ve ever known have proven that to be true.
“Such bullshit,” I mutter to myself.
I round the corner, my home coming into view. The door is swinging on its hinges, which is never a good sign here. Alarm bells sound in my head. I slow my approach, listening for anything unusual, but the sheer number of people crammed onto the street makes that effort pointless.
I pull my dagger out of its sheath at my calf and creep to the door before stepping through, ready for a fight.
It’s quiet and dark in the house; the only sound is my heart hammering against my ribs and the din from the street.
I leave the door open in case someone is still in the house.
Better to have an escape route than trap myself with a desperate or deranged person.
I walk quietly, checking each empty room.
The main floor is clear. I tiptoe up the stairs, avoiding the ones I know creak.
My agitation grows as my heartbeat becomes more erratic.
What few belongings we have are still in place.
A framed stick figure drawing I drew when I was about five of my mother, father, and I still hangs in the stairwell.
The frame at least is worth something. Turning the corner down the hallway on the top floor, I see light coming from my mother’s bedroom.
My shoulders sag in a relief that is quickly replaced by anger.
My mother must have left the door open after one of her tirades again.
I stomp to her bedroom, ready to give her a piece of my mind.
The room is completely ransacked. Her mattress and pillow have been shredded, feathers floating through the air and coating the floor.
The ashes from the fireplace mix with the straw from the mattress on the floor.
On the other side of her bed, I notice my mother’s shoes.
But no, that doesn’t make any sense. My mother only has one pair and they’re surely worth something.
No one who went to this much trouble would have left them behind.
I raise my dagger again and round the bed.
The shoes are still tied to her feet. A small squeak escapes my lips as I rush for her.
I turn her over into my lap, her eyes staring up at the ceiling just like this morning.
Only now they aren’t just listless. They’re lifeless.
“Mama?” I touch her face. It’s ice-cold and waxy.
“Mama?” I shake her as a tear splatters on her bloodless cheek.
“Mama please!” I beg. “Please, don’t leave me! Please!”
It’s too late. I’m too late. I clutch her to my chest and scream.
I feel like I’m being pulled in a thousand different directions, and I can’t breathe.
The panic in my blood overwhelms me. I scream and cry, not caring who hears.
Kalsevden will know what happened tonight. The world will feel my pain.
I don’t know how long I sit here wailing, choking on what little breath I can take. Eventually my cries quiet to a sob, then they die altogether, and I’m left holding my mama’s body and staring at the wall, not really seeing or feeling anything, just floating in the sea of my own mind.
A gentle hand touches my shoulder, while another takes my mother from my arms. I don’t have any fight in me to resist. I don’t care what happens now.
An arm wraps around me and gently guides me to standing.
It holds me tightly as it leads me down the hall to my bed and lays me down.
I look up and meet the kind brown eyes of my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Detrich.
She tucks my worn, scratchy blanket around me, runs her hand down my face, and whispers to me, “Sleep, Vayna. I’ll be here.”
She wipes a tear that squeezes free as I close my eyes and let sleep take me.
Light creeps into my bedroom through the naked window, waking me from a dreamless sleep.
For a moment, everything feels normal, safe.
Then I open my eyes and see Mrs. Detrich asleep in the bed with me, and I remember nothing will be the same again.
Everything has changed. I am an orphan. The Rookery is not a caring place for orphans.
I sit up slowly and gently shake Mrs. Detrich awake.
She blinks away the sleep from her eyes and looks into mine, sadness and pity swimming behind her gaze.
“Do you know what happened? Who did this?” I can barely speak. My throat is raw from screaming, my voice mangled.
“No one, dear. It was suicide. I’m so sorry. I called on a healer when I heard you screaming, thinking someone was injured, and he informed me it was suicide not long after I put you to bed.”
It feels like the world tilts beneath me. Suicide? My mother? No. No way. I won’t believe it. I shake my head aggressively, though immediately stop. My head is pounding.
“No,” I whisper. “No, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Her room. It was destroyed.”
Mrs. Detrich takes my hand and nods. “She did that. Before she . . .”
I knew my mother had been struggling since Papa’s death, but would she really do that?
I think back to the way our lives have gone these past three years and the answer in my heart is a resounding yes, she would.
A deep ache I know will never leave settles into my chest. I should have been kinder, more understanding.
I should have spoken less and listened more.
I should have stayed home yesterday, stayed with her when it was clear she was hurting. If I had, maybe she’d still be here.
I know my mother loved me. But she was in constant pain and was clearly beginning to lose her grip on reality.
Tears slide down my cheeks as I am forced to accept the truth in what Mrs. Detrich is saying.
She is gone. I am alone. No one can afford to take me in.
Not Mrs. Detrich, not even Feron. I have to learn to survive in the Rookery on my own.