Silas
It was midday when Silas got back to Root, and the town was coming alive with the day's activity. Enough so that Silas had to wait in a line of travelers coming into the town through the north gate, under the watchful eyes of his soldiers. He had been without a hard drink for nearly six hours already, and he was finding he didn't like it.
When he finally reached the front of the line, he was stopped by one of the soldiers, who looked him up and down. He hadn't been looking forward to this part. They didn't care when you left the town, but they always cared when you came back.
"Name and business," the soldier said, his voice gruff and autonomous from repeating the same words hundreds of times each day.
"Silas Morningstar," he replied. "I live here." He took a breath in through his congested nose, and then began to cough.
The soldier didn't react to his coughing. He just turned and passed the information on to a man in a black cotton shirt and pants. The man was sitting on a stool, and had a large book laid out on a simple wooden table. He ran his finger along the spine until he found the spot he wanted, and then lifted all of the pages before it out of the way. He then flipped through one by one, his finger tracing down the center.
"There we are," he said. "He is current on his residency tax."
The soldier waved him through.
Every man, woman, child, merchant, cart, and horse had to pay some kind of tax in order to live in, or visit, the larger towns and cities of his domain, which as far as Silas knew was the entirety of the world. He didn't know what he did with all of the coin that was collected, though reconsidering the number of soldiers just in Root, he supposed it was used to keep them fed, clothed, armed, trained, and paid.
"What for?" he wondered again.
Silas made his way back south, headed for the Constable's office. Now that he was more clean, he wandered closer to the iron fence that surrounded the building, trying to see through the dense, brightly-colored foliage to the soldiers he knew were behind it. He could hear the faint clang of swords connecting, and the twang of arrows being loosed to targets. He didn't know why, but the sounds stirred something in him. He needed to make this quick, so he could go and find a good ale.
"What are you doing here, old man?" the guard asked, incredulous, when Silas approached him at the gate.
Silas felt like he should have recognized the man, but he couldn't put him in any specific time or place. "I've come to speak with the Constable," Silas said. "I have some information."
The officer squinted his eyes. "You have information? Let me guess, there are imps in your pants."
Silas didn't remember ever having made that claim. He shook his head. "I have real information. About a Cursed."
The guard stopped squinting, his eyes going wide. It was forbidden to provide false information about a Cursed. The punishment for doing so was death by hanging.
The guard turned and brought out a ring of keys. He stuck one into a lock forged into the gate, turned it, and swung it open. "Amman help you if you're speaking from the bottle," he said. "Go straight up to the Constable's office and tell the steward what you told me."
Silas bowed slightly and walked in. He marveled at the gardens on either side of the wide stone path, but he also didn't linger. He passed under the heavy stone columns surrounding the office, reaching a pair of thick wooden doors. As he approached, another guard barked an order, and two wiry men in grey, burlap prison clothes pulled the heavy doors open. When he was through, they pushed them closed.
The doors opened into a foyer manned by the Constable's steward, a short, thin man with a beaked nose and no hair. His dress matched the man who had taken his name at the town gates, and he too sat on a stool behind a wooden table, writing something down.
Silas walked over to him, his heart beginning to beat faster in anxious anticipation of what he was about to do.
"State your name and business," the steward said, without looking up.
"Uh. I'm here to see Constable Penticott. Um. It's. Um. My name is..."
The steward looked up, and saw who was speaking. "Silas Morningstar," he said. "I know you. What's your business with the Constable?"
Silas didn't know if he should be impressed or afraid that the steward knew his name. His body began to tremble as he spoke. "A Cursed," he said. "I have information about a Cursed." He smiled then, a nervous, hopeful smile.
The steward eyed him for a moment, deciding whether or not he was serious. Silas looked back at him, and tried to quell his fidgeting. Satisfied, the steward stood up and went to the inner door. "Wait here a moment, Silas," he said, and he vanished through it.
Silas stood in the foyer. His heart was pounding, his body was trembling, and he could barely contain his nerves. Some people spent their whole lives hoping to learn the identity of a Cursed. There was even a guild whose sole purpose was to track down Cursed and report them. That was because there was a reward for turning in a Cursed. A large reward. Enough coin to live like a noble for a year or more. All he had to do was name the afflicted, and once they captured or killed them, the coin was his.
The steward returned with Constable Penticott. They were nearly the same age, he and Silas, though the Constable was clean and tidy, with a smoothly shaven face and his white hair cropped close to his head. He had a rough, grizzled look to him, made even more so by the fine black leathers he wore. A red, bleeding eye was dyed onto his jerkin, over his heart.
"Silas," he said. "You do realize if you're lying, or wrong about this, I'll have no choice but to hang you."
Silas nodded, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "I was downstream, taking a bath," he said, the words spilling out almost too fast to be understood. "I heard voices, so I climbed up onto the shore. I saw Selene and Calum Hess sitting together. He was begging her to keep his secret. He had blood under his eye."
The Constable raised his eyebrow. "I see," he said. He looked over at the steward. "Send for Roque right away."
The steward bowed and left the building, headed for the messenger's office.
"My reward?" Silas asked.
"If your information is right, you'll get it, but we'll need to send for Roque before we can move in."
Silas felt his stomach churning again, his body losing strength. "You mean I'm not going to get paid today?" he asked.
Penticott shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Our own Mediator, Lia, was dispatched to Watertown only a few days ago. We don't expect her back for another fortnight at least, and that's assuming she doesn't have to transfer the Cursed to the collection point before she returns. It's been quite a while since we've had two Cursed turn up within a matter of days. In any case, we'll send the fastest horse to the capital to summon him. When he arrives, we'll go to the Old Oak with a squad of soldiers, so that you can name Calum as Cursed. Hopefully, he won't resist, and Roque will take him to the collection point."
Silas stopped moving. "What?" he whispered, the word getting caught in his throat. He didn't know he had to look the boy in the eye and name him. His excitement was quickly turning to complete fear.
"It's his law, Silas. To dissuade the desperate from making false claims." Penticott stared at him, suggesting that it was exactly what he was doing.
"I know what I heard," Silas said. Didn't he? He was sure he did. "I'll be at the Sleepy Hollow."
The Constable shook his head. "I'm sorry, Silas," he said. "We need to keep you here. We can't afford for you to disappear before Roque arrives."
Silas had it in his mind to run, but he didn't. He had no chance of escaping an entire building of soldiers. He let the Constable take him by the arm and lead him further into the building, past the offices and down the stairs into the dungeon. There was only one other prisoner being held in the small, damp, cool cells beneath the building; an angry looking man with olive skin. Silas knew by his complexion that he must have been from the marshes.
"Look on the bright side," Constable Penticott said. "It's only straw, but it's a bed, and you'll get two meals every day. That's probably better than you've had in some time." He started to leave, and then turned back. "Oh, and I'll send someone down with a razor and some new clothes. I won't have you looking like the drunk vagrant you are when Roque arrives."
Silas let out a loud sigh, and went over to the bundle of straw in the corner. It was a three day ride from here to Elling, and that was assuming the messenger rode the horse as hard as he dared. That meant he would be stuck in the dungeon for six days at least. If Penticott didn't want him looking like a drunk, he was sure the man wouldn't grant his request for a drink either. He sat down and put his head in his hands.
" I wish I was washing dishes right now," he moaned.
***
"Wake up, murderer."
Silas opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep on the straw bed, turned on his side and facing the wall. When he rolled onto his back, he saw he wasn't alone. An olive skinned face was glaring down at him, an angry sneer painting it.
"Sweet dreams, you bastard?" the man asked, kicking him in the ribs with his bare foot. Silas cried out in pain and surprise.
"What are you doing?" he cried. "Leave me alone." Silas looked over to his cell door.
It was open.
"Do you think I don't recognize you, you murdering pig?" He kicked Silas again.
"Please, I don't know what you're talking about. I've never killed anyone." At least, he didn't think he had. His memories could be a little shaky sometimes, but he would have known if he had killed someone. Wouldn't he?
The man leaned down and put his arms under Silas, lifting him with ease. Now that he was closer, Silas could see the thick masses of muscle and the sheer size of the man. "No? Let me remind you." He threw Silas against the back of the cell, knocking the wind out of him.
He started wheezing, and doubled over.
"My name is Aziz Lozen. My sister's name was Ezra. My mother's name was Vishnu. My father's name was Roedic." For each name, he punched Silas in the stomach. "You killed them. All of them. You and his bastard soldiers."
Silas heard the names. He didn't remember them. He didn't know them. He had never been any kind of soldier, never mind one of his soldiers.
"Please," he gasped. "You have me mistaken with someone else. I didn't... I couldn't..."
"I'd know your face anywhere, murderer. Age and hair can't hide you from me. I've dreamed about killing you for half of my life. I never imagined I would find you locked up in one of his dungeons." He punched Silas in the gut three more times, laughing all the while.
Silas wanted to slump to the floor, and go back to sleep. He wanted to slip past Aziz and run out of the cell, up the stairs, and past the guards. He wanted anything but to be leaning against the wall, being pummeled to death.
"Help," he croaked. It was barely even loud enough for himself to hear.
Aziz laughed harder. "They can't hear you, murderer. I know, I've screamed myself hoarse. Even if they could, they wouldn't come. They don't care about us. They don't care about anyone who tries to think for themselves. All of those people out there. They think that they are following their own path, living their own life. They don't realize how he controls it. They think he only takes the Cursed, but that isn't true. I know, I've spent years searching for answers. He takes what he needs from the people, to have what he wants. No matter the cost to others. Like my family."
He started punching, faster and harder. His eyes were welling with tears now, his pain finally finding some release in beating Silas to death.
Silas moved his arms, trying to block the punches, but he couldn't do it. He was too old, too slow, too weak, too hungover.
"Please," he whispered.
Aziz didn't listen.
I'm going to die, Silas thought. He knew it was true. He could feel his body beginning to bend under the pressure of the blows. Soon enough it would break. His mind traveled to the seashore. He was watching a huge, three-masted wooden ship sailing away from the land and out over the horizon. His lady, his love was on that ship. Why was she leaving him?
Under the pressure of the blows, something inside Silas shifted. It was a corked bottle that was never meant to come unstoppered, that had been drowned in the flood of ale for nearly ten years. Now the cork was pushed upward by the pressure, breaking the airtight seal and allowing a memory to drip out.
Aziz drew back his hand and threw another punch, the first intended for Silas' face. Without warning, Silas shifted his weight and ducked to the side of the blow. Aziz's fist hit the cement wall, his fingers breaking under the force. It must have been painful, but in his anger the man didn't notice.
Silas wasn't thinking, just acting. When Aziz tried to punch him in the gut, he twisted and caught the arm, using the forward momentum to pull the man into the wall. Aziz cried out in pain, his nose crushed against the stone, then felt himself being pulled and flipped onto his back.
He stared up at Silas, his anger turning to fear. The old man looked different. Younger, stronger, harder. "You are Heden himself," he whispered. He saw Silas raise his bare foot. He saw it lash out at his temple like a snake. He never saw anything else.
Silas looked down at Aziz's dead body with a mixture of fear and sadness. Where had he learned to fight like that? How did he know where to kick him to kill him? How had he done it with no thought or remorse?
He didn't know the answer to any of the questions. He had acted on instinct to defend himself. He had done things he hadn't even known he knew how to do. The feeling was overwhelming.
He winced from a sharp stabbing pain in his ribs. "It was him or me," he whispered. "I don't know who he thought I was?"
He shifted his attention to the open cell door. He knew he couldn't escape. Just because the door was open, he'd still need to get past all of the soldiers. He decided he would just lay down and rest, and wait for them to come to feed him. Then he would explain everything.