Page 24 of They Call Me Blue
“Korun of Olsenna was our shortest-lived Karesai. A paragon of justice, he was the only elgrew brave enough to punish those closest to the Grand Overseer. Perhaps in this case, bravery is synonymous with stupidity.”
—On Elgrew Politics, Newspaper Entry
Author Unknown
“ W hat do we do with the boy?” Morcai asks, pacing the tent.
He acts like I’m not here, gagged and bleeding, my head woozy from how hard he hit it with the back of his machete.
My surroundings blur, blinking into and out of focus as Korun—the Karesai of Hunters—approaches me, crouching to inspect my injuries.
His hand is cool on my forehead. Almost gentle.
“Do you have any evidence that he knew what Talin was doing?”
Morcai shakes his head. “But the man trained him. Gods know what ideas he filled the boy’s head with. It’s too dangerous to keep him alive.”
I shout behind my gag. I don’t understand what’s happening—why they took me from my uncle in the middle of the night or stashed me here. We’ve done nothing wrong. We hunt alone. We follow the rules.
“He’s the Grand Overseer’s son,” Korun says. “We can’t kill him on a hunch. There must be proof.”
“If we can’t kill him, then we’ll make him watch. Let him see what happens to traitors, then he won’t be so quick to follow in his uncle’s footsteps.”
Korun scratches his chin, considering. Then, he grabs me by the armpits and hefts me over his shoulder, carrying me like I weigh nothing. Like I am nothing.
“I want to see my uncle,” I hiss. The words get lost in the dirty rag that tastes of mildew and wet grass. “Let me go.”
Twisting and writhing, I struggle to break free, but Korun holds me in a vice.
Pushing aside the canvas flaps, he carries me into a flowery field where a crowd of Hunters gather.
In the center towers a large wooden pole surrounded by dry hay that reeks of kerosene.
I squirm harder when someone drags my uncle toward it, past the quiet onlookers.
Purple and yellow bruising covers Talin’s body.
He’s been stripped to his underclothes, which are dirty and covered in purple stains.
Blood seeps from his missing fingernails, down a split, swollen lip, over his pit organs, and from bones bent at unnatural angles.
The woman who drags him, ties him to the post, tightening the ropes until he screams.
The teeth are missing from his mouth.
I squirm harder. “Let him go!”
Korun passes me to Morcai, who shoves me to the dirt, forcing me into a kneeling position. His fingers dig bruises into my shoulder. As my uncle’s light purple eyes find mine, he mouths something like, “Don’t watch.”
But Morcai doesn’t give me a choice. He fists my hair and keeps my gaze level. “Turn away and I’ll make sure you look just like him.”
Body shaking in terror, in anger, I stare at Korun, who marches to the wooden stake, a matchbox in hand. Tears well behind my eyelids, but I blink them away.
“Talin of Kariss, you’ve been found guilty of treason. May the rains bless you and the gods forgive you. Demtin knows I won’t.”
He throws the match onto the hay, and my uncle goes up in a plume of smoke and screams.