Page 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Cat

‘D o you like it here?’ Elena asks Cat as she mixes butter and beeswax in a large bowl. His job is to grind together the active ingredients she calls for with a mortar and pestle, and when he grinds them down finely enough, she adds them to her batch. She has sixteen pots filled with sixteen different ingredients and she calls out names and directions without looking at them. He is only here to follow her commands.

He grinds a bulbous seed that he knows as a snapping ice plant but Elena calls something else entirely, then crushes in a few mint leaves on her order. ‘I mean Kreuzfurt, of course,’ Elena laughs, ‘not here, in this chamber. No one likes helping me in here , not even my husband.’ She is probably right. The room is hot, stuffy and dark, illuminated only by one glass lantern. There is little ventilation, and the mixture of herbs is too potent, the space too claustrophobic. The only reason Cat is here is because Marina told him it was his turn. Everyone else has already done their part.

It’s probably another test, he thinks, squinting at his concoction. Elena is not a Reaper or a Giver. He could kill her in an instant. He does not. There is no point, he has no desire to do so, and the consequences would be extreme. But these Solebens . . . they love their tests.

‘You’re married?’ he asks instead, leaning a bit harder on the pestle, turning it in a full circle.

‘Yes, though I rarely get to see him. We both serve the crown in our own ways, and so I make do with what I have. But you, Cat, do you like it here?’

‘It’s fine.’ Kreuzfurt is a place of routines. Routines that are easily memorized and maintained. The gates open, hopeful patients and pilgrims enter, the Givers guide the majority to their House, and only once every few days does someone come looking for a Reaper’s care. The halls are filled with laughter and community. Those who do not wish to help patients spend their days working the fields or finding some other kind of productive labour. Any goods or food they produce are sent to the capital, the proceeds from the sale used to maintain Kreuzfurt as a whole. Kreuzfurt could almost be considered idyllic, if the walls did not exist and the guards did not walk the tops with their torches and arrows made of poison. He can understand why Lord Anslian thought this place a refuge, but he knows full well why Elician had called it a prison instead. As beautiful and serene as Kreuzfurt is, no one here is truly free.

He hands her his work, and she dumps it into her bowl, mixing and mixing until she is fully satisfied. ‘Fill up the tins, please, about one good scoop each should do it.’ He nods and follows her commands until each of the forty tins laid out is filled, lids pressed closed. ‘Thank you, dear,’ Elena says, helping to move the finished tins into a basket.

They bring the tins to the House of the Unwanting’s great hall and set them out for the Reapers to collect on their way through. ‘It’s very different from Alelune, isn’t it?’ Elena asks as he arranges each tin in a precise line.

‘Yes.’

‘Crowen was a part of Alelune when I was still a girl, but it quickly became part of Soleb not long afterwards – and the borders never changed back. My parents never got used to the change. They still cooked with their own creams and cheeses and celebrated Tomestange . We’d close the doors and pretend to be Alelunen for the night with some of the other families who stayed after the border moved. Can you imagine that?’ He could. He had done almost the inverse when Elician had given him the chance that same night. ‘I do miss my parents’ quiches and pies . . . I never did learn how to make them right and I’ve never found anything similar since.’

‘Did you become a physician because of them?’ he asks quietly.

‘Science and art are cornerstones of a good Alelunen life, and in matters of health – well, my parents were quite content to never so much as look at a Giver if they could manage it. So, I was raised to appreciate the need for a physician. Most border towns have one, you know: Crowen, Altas, and even further north as well. It’s too ingrained in our culture not to want one. I suppose from there . . . I wanted to learn how to heal others too. Besides, I can help more people out there than by staying here year-round. It’s impossible for all the sick to make the journey to Kreuzfurt.’

‘Givers and Reapers truly never leave this place?’

‘They do, but only with permission from the King. There is a rotation. Travelling Givers will go from town to town under armed guard and will tend to the ills and concerns of the common folk around Soleb.’

‘Why are they guarded?’

‘To make sure they don’t disappear. A person who can heal anything? Raise the dead? That’s a dangerous person to lose track of. A Reaper has a better chance of escape; if they are caught by a baseline human, they just need one opportunity and they could easily kill their captors. But a Giver doesn’t quite have that same kind of advantage. There’s a greater risk that they could be bound and imprisoned.’ Cat rather thinks she’s overestimating how easy it would be for a Reaper to overpower someone. If it was so simple, the cells in Alelune would lie empty. But Elena doesn’t seem to recognize her faux pas, shrugging and tidying the table with her back to him. She carries on, blissfully unaware. ‘The guards are for the Givers’ own safety.’

‘And to make sure they return?’ he presses. She hesitates. Then nods.

‘That too.’ Elena clears her throat. ‘It will be different for Fenlia. Apparently Elician promised her a seat on his council, and the royal court usually has at least one Giver and one Reaper representative. Marina did that for a long while, when Elician was still a child. But in general those representatives are meant to serve as more transient liaisons between Himmelsheim and Kreuzfurt. As far as I know, the plan for Fen is for her to leave here and take up a position in a more permanent capacity after Elician takes the throne. Perhaps she’ll even end up as a member of the council at the Kingsclave. But Zinnitzia and Marina would either need to die or cede their seats to permit that – whichever comes first.’

‘Fen is too biased to be an honest liaison,’ he murmurs.

‘She certainly has her biases. You never doubt what that girl is thinking at the very least. Perhaps she’ll grow out of it. Though she does seem to be less confrontational with you lately, yes? Or have I got it wrong?’

‘No. You’re not wrong.’ But what Fen wants out of it is still unclear. She has been dogged in her attempts at polite civility and enthusiasm. It is a brand of attention that he isn’t used to, equal parts friendly and oppressive. She is loud. Demanding. He misses, sometimes, the familiar comfort and quiet of the cells where all those around him spoke the same language, breathing as one with the same emotions on their lips. He never questioned what he was meant to say or do, there. He had never been confused.

Since coming to Soleb, everything has been confusing. Each new acquaintance more complicated than the last. Elician had been the least offensive of the bunch, despite his frequent breaches of propriety. Cat had never quite minded listening to Elician ramble on about one foolish thought after another. The prince had just been so full of hope. For a while, Elician even made it feel like hope was something worth holding on to. Something precious, rather than a precursor to endless disappointment.

Nudging the final tins in the row back and forth, Cat bites his lip. A door opens at the end of the hall. It is past dawn, the sun is finally rising proudly, and the day is meant to officially begin. All the House’s Reapers enter, some in groups and some on their own. They arrive in various states of undress, hair down from their usual Soleben braids, skin exposed, laughing and chatting amongst themselves. Their black tunics, hoods and trousers are carried in bags or tucked under their arms. Two men, bare-chested and tall, always enter the hall arm in arm. Cat watches them under his lashes. One of the men drapes his arm over his fellow’s shoulders. He leans over, whispering something in his ear, earning a laugh and a smile and a lingering kiss on his lips.

With a sudden pang that twinges sharper than he anticipated, he thinks of riding with Elician. How his arms had felt around his body. His chin at his shoulder, whispering idle comments or pointing out birds. His breath warm against Cat’s skin. His body strong and sturdy—

Elena makes a strange noise to his right. Cat glances at her, finding her laughing, one hand pressed to her lips. ‘ Fine , he says,’ Elena mimics, giggling nonsensically. ‘He says it’s fine here.’

‘I don’t understand.’ He glances back at the couple moving to their place in line.

‘I’m sure you don’t, dear.’ She pats his sleeve delicately. He wants to ask what she means, but Marina arrives and calls for them to begin. As one, the Reapers form a line and collect their tins. They greet Elena politely, then thank him as he hands them over, one after another.

All the Reapers in Soleb seem to know each other. That is not the case in Alelune. While most Reapers are kept beneath Alerae, Cat knows of at least four other Reaper cells spread across the country. Sometimes those Reapers came to Alerae, transferred for one reason or another, but he knows precious little about any of the others.

Marina had said she thought there were statistically more Reapers in Alelune, simply because that is Death’s domain. It makes sense that Soleb has a proportionately larger number of Givers. But even with that knowledge, it feels strange to look into a room and see all the Reapers a country has to offer. Only a few dozen, compared to the hundreds of Alelune. And all of them treat each other with such displays of physical attention, it embarrasses him more than entices him. Even so, when he tries to avert his eyes, the temptation to just look and see and confirm that yes, it is still there , builds with uncomfortable instance. And he wonders, sometimes, what it would have been like if he had been brought up in a place like this instead of the cells he had always known.

Hanian ‘died’ fifty years ago, while sailing to Glaika, but enjoys eating sweet food and has a great boisterous laugh. He spends his time with Io – who died only seven years ago, falling from her horse. But she still adores the damned creatures and tends to the stables whenever she can. Along with Fransen, those three had celebrated the loudest after Cat’s cheek had been healed, kissing it and issuing congratulations that Cat had not expected. Yet all the rest had approached Cat too, offering well wishes and embraces to which he had not known how to respond. He’d flushed and stepped away, ducking from their Soleben shows of delight, but not before earning a few kisses to his bare cheek that left him squirming in discomfort. Marina had told some of his well-wishers off when it had happened, but every so often that beautiful couple catches his eye and winks in his direction and his mouth feels too dry as he remembers lessons of propriety that he never thought he’d need to adhere to because who would ever want to touch his skin?

He refuses to learn that particular couple’s names. Knowing one thing more about them is simply too much to bear. But he watches them collect their tins, sit at each other’s side, comfortable and at ease, utterly unconcerned about their bodies. He wonders, Will I ever be that shameless? But he cannot decide if he yearns for an affirmation or not. So, he flushes and takes his own tin instead. Just for something to do with his hands.

Elena leaves. With the product delivered, she has no place in this assembly. She waves goodbye, and he shuffles to his usual place in front of Marina, pulling his tunic off in the process. Fransen is in front of him and, even three months in, he still worries how to approach this task.

‘Ready?’ Marina asks, opening her tin. Despite spending the pre-dawn hours helping Elena mix the ointment, it still stings his nose. It is too sharp, too acidic by far. It is little wonder its creation is the least liked job at the House. An essential job, certainly, but not particularly fun.

He nods, though he doesn’t ever feel ready for this. Then, her hand is on his back. The ointment she applies is bitingly cold. Her touch is gentle but the cold stings, sinking deep within him. His teeth chatter and he twitches forward in a natural attempt to escape. Marina had explained the use of the unguent when he first arrived, and he has used it every day since. As do all Reapers. But the initial contact is still almost overwhelming. Without it, though, they will become too hot in the summer sun – and they must remain robed in their thick black clothing to protect others not of their kind.

The heat won’t kill us, Marina had said, shrugging as she handed him his first tin. But it does make the days excruciating. The exhaustion is unbearable.

Why wear black – this black – at all? he had asked in turn, rubbing his thumb and forefinger against the too-thick fabric.

Because it is noticeable at a distance, and impossible to ignore. As for this black . . . it’s the thickest fabric in Soleb. All of Soleb’s people are afraid of us, of us touching them, and us being covered by this keeps them calm. They can trust there will be no contact, even by accident. This ointment does help with the heat. Remember to thank Elena. She developed it just for us.

Cat shivers, spine curving away from Marina’s touch. But she is insistent and firm, digging her thumbs into his shoulders and soothing cramped muscles he had not even noticed were getting tense. Careful, fearing he might tear Fransen’s far thinner skin, Cat begins the same process. Fransen sighs, humming in contentment as Cat spreads the balm along his back, neck and arms. Once the initial shock passes, the sensation does become somewhat pleasurable, especially as the sun rises higher and the heat of the day becomes cloying in its intensity. He lathers generously, always struggling to find the proper ointment-to-skin ratio. But each time his fingers slip and slide against Fransen’s skin, he does better. He improves.

When all the hard-to-reach places are accounted for, the circle breaks. Reapers begin applying the salve to their own chests and legs. Though some, including the devastatingly distracting couple Cat saw before, continue to share in the intimacy of the exchange. They rub their hands over each other’s chests, their hips, their necks. Then, when they are done, when their bodies have been tended to, they help each other dress. On go the black trousers, the heavy long-sleeved tunic, the thick boots and gloves. The bells. The sun burns in through the window and Cat shivers at the conflicting feeling of icy skin and choking humidity.

‘Thank you, Cat,’ Fransen says when they finish. ‘You know . . . I think I’m going to sit out in the garden today.’ Cat frowns. He has lessons with Elena and Fen in the library. ‘Go without me,’ Fransen murmurs. ‘It will be fine.’

‘Are you all right?’ Cat asks.

‘Yes, yes. It’s just such a lovely day.’ He takes Cat’s hands in his, kissing his knuckles, before slowly ambling away.

Cat’s skin tingles at the touch. It always does, even beneath the gloves. Leaving him uncertain if he wants to prolong the contact or pull away. He does remember what it was like before he died. His father hugged him frequently. An arm around his shoulders, a hand in his hair. Whenever Cat had managed to impress his father’s seneschal during particularly complex lessons, he remembers the proud clap of a hand to his shoulder. Fingers tightening around his aching muscles. Never more than that – anything more would be considered inappropriate.

Here, it’s as if the Solebens are incapable of not touching one another. They reach out, tracing fingers and lips to bits of skin whenever the opportunity arises. Holding hands or grasping wrists, leaving kisses against brows, or looping arms around bodies. As if it would kill them to not physically declare to the world all their affections in all their varying degrees.

It’s obscene.

It’s an indecency that makes his stomach ache. Solebens show their love so freely, and it makes their intentions unclear. If everyone can kiss and hug and touch one another, then how is anyone to understand if those kisses or touches mean more ?

‘Shall you sit with us tomorrow?’ asks the tall Reaper Cat refuses to get to know. His eyes drift towards his muscular body, square jaw and direct blue eyes. He imagines for half a second what those hands would feel like rubbing the cooling salve against his skin. Then he definitively shakes his head no , collecting empty tins for Elena to reuse in the morning.

‘I don’t think he’s interested, darling,’ the other Reaper teases, arms going around his partner’s waist. He rests his chin on his companion’s shoulder.

‘Shame,’ the tall Reaper says. They leave together, gorgeous and tactile and unburdened by any concept of impropriety. Cat finishes putting the empty tins back in the basket for Elena to collect. Then he flees to the library to meet Fen. Fen, at least, never makes him feel like this .

Abrasive, impatient and rude, Fen flits from idea to idea without thinking too much about the topics that frustrate her the most. But she does not intend her rudeness. It seems to just happen, as if she accidentally falls into it without quite realizing what she’s saying or doing. He could dislike her more if she intended to be so unkind, but her own disagreeable nature seems to even surprise herself. And once she becomes aware of it . . . well. She has been trying to be nice. As strange as it appears, she has been trying.

Fen is already in the library with Elena when he arrives, going over her latest autopsy results. Last week they had been examining a rat’s internal organs as part of their lessons, and Fen had accidentally touched it with the back of her wrist. It woke up, chest still carved open by their instruments. It screeched loudly and Cat had killed it less than a second later, but the sheer shock of it had made Fen cry for hours. Elena had needed to counsel her through much of the week for her to even try again. But she had, eventually, tried again. For someone afraid of failure, and death, Fen seems to be slowly getting used to both. Even, he thinks, the knowledge that they are inevitable.

He walks steadily towards their usual spot, stopping only when he feels something shift in the air. A chill slides down his back. His teeth chatter. He knows this feeling. Knows it well . Jerking back the way he came – he runs. Someone shouts his name, but he ignores it, rushing for the staircase. The feeling washes through him, swift as a river and just as violent. His lungs seem to fill with water. It’s a lie . His hands scramble for the banister. His feet carry him dutifully forward. He descends towards the gardens, down one flight of stairs, then another, and another. All the way to the bottom where he stumbles and trips across the main hall of the House of the Unwanting.

Fransen’s favourite garden is a quiet place with fruit trees and olive vines by a giant pond. He likes to lie amongst the sweet grass and herbs, breathing in the scent of possibility as a gentle breeze flutters. It is not far from the House of the Unwanting. The very edge of the pond is visible from the door.

Cat is not supposed to be running – it draws too much attention – but he does not care who is watching him now. He runs, breathless, choking on water that does not exist. His vision tunnels, then improves. He sees Fransen sitting on a bench overlooking the pond. There is a figure next to him. She turns and meets Cat’s eyes. Her mouth moves.

Cat stops. He stands in place. He blinks; she is gone. And he can breathe again. His hands tremble at his sides. ‘Cat?’ Fen calls from behind him. Maybe she had seen him running. Maybe she too had felt what was about to happen. He hears others now, many others. Footsteps echo like thunderclaps in his head. ‘Cat, what’s wrong?’ Fen shouts. He wonders if it’s the first time she has seen this happen. No one else is speaking; they already know. They approach slowly, quietly, afraid to break the tension in the air. ‘Cat?’ Fen asks again. One of her hands touches his wrist. He flinches away, tucking his arms around his body. Not now. He does not want to be touched now. Not by her. Not by anyone.

‘Did you see her?’ he asks.

‘See who?’

‘Death,’ Marina suggests. He turns. She and Zinnitzia are approaching together. She has a long black fold of cloth in her arms. Her expression is tender and calm.

‘Death?’ Fen repeats. Then she turns towards Fransen. ‘He’s not . . .’ She gasps. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t sense him, but he can’t be—’ Marina approaches their chaperone’s body without saying another word. She gently guides him to lie down. ‘He’s only been a Reaper for a few years. Why would Death make him a Reaper only to take him so soon?’

‘Maybe he did what he needed to do,’ Cat murmurs. He closes his eyes. Zinnitzia is saying something. Perhaps a prayer. Perhaps something else. There are many Reapers here now, many Givers too. Some start to cry. Grief strikes, sharp and poignant, as the assembled masses curl into the arms of their loved ones, weeping and huddling close. Some are whispering things, memories, dreams, hopes they had for Fransen that he will never get to complete now.

Cat’s fingers curl against his skin. He does not care to listen. He turns and walks away. Fen tries to reach out for him, but he avoids her and keeps walking. Fen resorts to following him instead.

‘Did you see her?’ she asks. ‘Death? What does she look like? I’ve never seen the gods.’

Cat stops at the steps leading to the House of the Unwanting. He does not know how Givers are made. It has never occurred to him. But he has assumed that Life has to be there at some point, somehow. He turns, glancing back at her. ‘You have never seen Life?’

‘How many times have you seen Death?’ she snaps back, flushing.

‘Many times. She’s there whenever we die. Properly. At the final moments and the first. When I died my first time, I saw her then. She asked me – it doesn’t matter. Yes, I saw her.’ Fen stares up at him. She does not seem to understand. She wants a story, an explanation. He has never had to explain it before, though. He is not sure where to start. ‘In the Reaper cells in Alerae, whenever one of us died . . . Death always came first. She walked the length of the cells, from the first to the last, and she would stop before whoever she wanted to take. She would speak to them and . . . and then she would disappear and all that would be left was a body.’

Fen shivers, likely horrified. So much about what he is scares her. But this isn’t something to be feared; it never has been. He just . . . doesn’t know how to explain the joy those moments brought. The sound of a hundred voices crying out in gratitude and jubilation, the tears at being noticed, the hope of a future change. Even one such as this. Fen sees Death as an end to be avoided. She is a child of Life. She will never understand how Death taking a Reaper’s hands feels like witnessing freedom at long last.

‘What does Death look like?’ Fen asks again, voice trembling.

‘Not like the paintings or the statues made in her honour,’ he replies. ‘But . . . like something known but half glimpsed that you have no way of describing. Like a bird that blurs by you in the trees. You know it must be a bird, for what else could it be? So, you imagine it had a head, a beak, a body and a tail, and you imagine it must have been brown because that is the colour of other birds nearby. You didn’t see it properly, but you know it must have had that shape. You know it must have had those features. And so, it did. And that’s what she is. She appears, and you know she must exist and have a body because you can see her. You can hear her voice, so you must have seen a mouth. She is looking at you, so she must have eyes. She must have a face, but that face . . . sometimes it looks like my mother, other times like the woman who raised me. And other times, like no one I know at all. But in my mind, I see her, and I know she is Death. And I know, more than that, that she knows me. She has always known me, and I have always known her.’

‘Because you’re a Reaper?’

He shakes his head. Shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’ Then he turns back towards the House of the Unwanting. He leaves her there, climbing the stairs of the tower as fast as he can.

He sits on the floor by his bed and pulls his knees to his chest. Then he smiles and laughs. Congratulations, Fransen, he thinks wildly, and tries to remember the words to the songs they’d sing on days when not even those guarding their cells dared to make them fall silent. And when he starts to cry, it is not because he’s sad Fransen died. It’s because Fransen should have had a chorus of voices singing and celebrating his new beginning. But it is only him, alone in a tower, while all the rest of Kreuzfurt speak Fransen’s name, as if holding on to his memory is the only way to cherish his existence.

Night falls and his voice is hoarse from hours of trying to give Fransen the credit he deserves. Someone knocks at his door, and he bids them enter. It is Marina and Elena. They have flowers in their arms and plates of food. ‘I was never in the Reaper cells in Alelune; that started after my time,’ Marina says. ‘But I know Alelune has not changed its response to death.’

‘It’s the same in Crowen, and Altas too,’ Elena says. ‘Do you want to celebrate with us?’ And he nods, desperate and hopeful, and learns how the people outside the cells thank Death for the changing. And he understands how easy it could be to learn to like it here, with people like them.