Heartfelt Sounds (10 page)
I blink as he holds the handle. With his free hand, he yanks at the young man's right hand. Rolls it over to his forearm.
“Hold your breath.”
And I wince as he plunges the searing end of the iron into the boy's forearm. I look away as steam
shrieks
and the boy screams with it—blowing out his voice as he cries and hollers for mercy from the big man who is unrepentant. He lets the boy steal back his arm when the branding is done, the young man's skin red and angry as the blackened symbol of a dragon caught within a circular ring rises with a
hiss
upon his forearm.
I see that his breeches are wet with damp.
“Send the next one in.” the big man grunts at the boy, shoving the handle of the branding iron towards me. “You, put that back in the coals. Bring it round when you see the next boy.”
I nod—almost falling on my face as I jump away.
This continues for what feels like hours. Boy after boy—shrieking, wetting himself, blacking out or holding his voice in with a face that grows redder and redder. Burnt skin and urine insults my nostrils and I feel like I might heave. When the brand touches another arm with a
sizzle—
I think of Akane's hair. I think of the fire that sat atop her head and how she cut it when the soldiers came.
The Dawnlord.
That name stains my thoughts. Sits on my mind like a heavy weight.
Until, soon no boys remain. I hear them step off from the courtyard—the group leaving me behind. I think to rush out—to tell them to wait. But before I can move, the big man catches my right wrist and holds it still. His large hand engulfs my arm almost completely, and as he turns my wrist over he lets most of his fingers go. Holding my forearm between his thumb and index finger, he plunges the iron onto my skin.
It burns—it sizzles and spits and the pain swallows me like biting water. Like water lined with jagged shards of broken glass.
I grit my teeth.
I see Akane's cat-like eyes as the thing hisses at me. Presses into me and I feel my very blood boil with the heat. Burning me from the inside out.
The eyes squint—vanish—as hands slide around my throat. Her hands. Her words tickle my ears. Her lips.
“They can't take you,”
she hisses—words like venom. They bite me—they stab at my ears as I
scream.
“I won't let them.”
And the world disappears.
As I'm safe again.
Cradled by the black.
Akane.
She holds me. Stills me. Keeps me safe—cradles me in her strong embrace and I'm safe again. I'm home and Shanti's sleeping in the parlor—Chima down the hallway.
Nyx gone.
Gone—like they all are.
Dead.
My eyes snap open.
A high cream ceiling stares back at me.
Before a face covers it.
“You're alive!” Mismatched eyes—and for a moment, I think I'm staring up at Chima—until black hair slithers down his shoulders. It tickles my nose and I sneeze. “Guys! Another one's up!”
There's no reply, but he moves away. I struggle to sit up and the room moves with me.
“Eh…no one else is getting up…” he mutters, standing center between five evenly spaced mats. “The Branding always takes a lot out of people.” he says, his tone dejected as he slouches.
Across from me lies another body, prone upon a mat of brown. His right arm bleeds red and white as my own arm burns and I
hiss
suddenly. Wrenching my arm away as if that big smith was clutching it again—forcing that burning iron onto my skin. I bring my right forearm up, stare at the dragon symbol as it rises angrily upon my blackened skin, and force it away. I plant my hands upon the floor.
Where am I?
Near the sleeping body are large wooden screens that are closed tightly, but air filters through them. Hot air, and I turn as a dainty breeze hovers over me. Coming from tightly closed windows from my back. I see a forest of naked trees, gnarled wooden fingers
reach
through an inky night and I turn to look at the tall man standing centered in the cream room before my gaze falls to two other men also sleeping on dark brown mats. Their injured arms pulled straight with the brand clearly visible. Angry and red. Or pink with puss that mingles with oozing blood.
Outside the closed screens, I hear a kitchen—the clinking of pots and the
tinking
of pestles, the soft
hiss
of steaming water and the tasteless smell of rice. An odor of decay overpowers all as it suddenly siphons through the screen and my stomach churns noisily. Flipping as I pinch my nose.
“Where am I?”
It is a thought that pours from my mouth like vomit. I look to the man in the center of the room who cocks his head. Grins widely—all teeth. No gaps. “Castle Tsubame. You'd think the castellan would tell you that! But
no…”
and he shrugs. Stares at me from his higher position. Daring me to stand. “All of you are from Felicity, right? Well most of
us
were carted all the way from Blackstone!”
I spy a vacant mat from the corner of my eye, towards my right, before bringing my gaze back to him. “Blackstone?”
“The west.”
I look at him blankly—my mind reaching for home as I free my fingers from my nose and bring my hand over my mouth. A sharp
“Oh.”
escapes between my loosely closed fingers and I gag as the smell hits me. When I fan the stench away, mismatched eyes freezes. Widens his eyes and shakes his head.
His face is round—like a child's—and wide eyes seem taken aback. It's like the scent doesn't affect him as it becomes stronger.
“Oh—
there are
countries! Huge
places! Not something to simply
'oh'
about!
”
He chuckles a bit, rocking on his heels. “Wow, you easterners really don't know a thing, do you? Subaki warned me my crew would be a bunch of slack jawed goodfor—,” he stops himself, moves his eyes away. “for—forget I said that.”
I ignore the insult.
“Crew?”
He throws his head back. Laughs with a single explosive breath. Lowers his head and smirks. “
What?
You think you'd be here on vacation? Enjoying your silkyhouses and such?
No,
they've sworn you to the ranks of the eastwing scullions! At night—at least.” and he shrugs. “It's not a hard job, though. You avoid most of the castle staff—even the castellan…
if
you're lucky—which none of us are. Hence, the job of
scullion
,” the man shivers, twists up his nose. “but you'll get used to the crap—ex—excuse me, the
refuse.
You'll get used to it, and then…”
The wooden screen behind him slides open with a
crash.
Steam wafts in, followed by the heavy smell of sweat and spoiled meat scented with an overpowering rancid odor that bursts from the door—clearing the steam and sweat. The noxious strength of the odor makes me gag—brings tears to my eyes and threatens to make me heave. I cough as the sleeping men noisily roll over on their mats—throwing themselves up as they too cough. I hear a man vomit and bile rises in my throat. Burns me.
“…and then, it'll get worse.”
The man with the mismatched eyes hurries us from our mats as the fumes thicken, wafting from the opened screens as footsteps clatter upon wood. Doors
hiss
open and the footsteps dissipate—people leaving. People I cannot see as their footsteps soften and a door slides shut with a
snap.
Mismatched eyes ushers us towards the scent, forcing us past the screens and into a mess of a kitchen.
Scuffed floors greet us. As does an odor that forces our hands to our noses and mouths. I think—I think I've never smelt something so noxious, but the scent reminds me of the rear end of a horse. Rancid yet fresh.
Beastly—
and my eyes rove over low tables centered in the middle of the large room. A pit of blackened sand lies near it, as on the opposite side of the tables, sit three large cauldrons with pink slime oozing slowly from their wide, circular, mouths. Utensils litter the tables; spilt cups, red liquid staining the wooden tables, along with used wooden pestles and iron cast pans slick with oil and old spices. On the far side of the wall, near the kitchen entrance, stand stone ovens that belch tiny black stones and I watch them spill upon the ground like rat droppings.
Mismatched eyes lines us up and ignores the smell. Like he's used to it. “You all can call me, Hue.” he stops when a smaller boy with dusty black hair brings his hands to his knees. “Want the smell to go away? Well, that's
our
job—you'll get used to it. The
mess—
the cooks don't
care.
So, it's better if you
don't
complain,” he comes to the boy. Pats his head and moves down the line towards the far wall at my right. A tall closet of dark wood sits there, the doors almost falling from their hinges when Hue throws them open. He pulls out buckets, rags, brooms—anything he can find—and simply throws them to the floor. Turns to us with a wide grin on his face—puffs out his chest as he nods his head. “and get to work!”
We scrub—we clean. Someone leaves the kitchen with Hue to fetch water, and brings back a huge tin tub of it. All sloshing around—wetting up the floor and half the boys with it. Hue is bright. A talker and one for quick learning as he talks non-stop to us. Teaching us protocol as we clean.
“Everyone is, 'sir', to us.” he says, matter-of-factly. “Don't bother learning names unless it's the higher staff. Don't bother looking for the Lord of Tsubame, because he's never here.”
I'm at one of the cauldrons when I almost heave—Hue looks into the pink mess and comes back with a green face—but not even that stops his words. “So, back to the staff—the castellan, the guy with the silly feather on his cap—” we grunt in unison as we heave the pink mess into an empty tin tub. “—watch out for him.
Sahin.
When some of you switch to day shift you'll run into him—eyes like a hawk, that one. He doesn't miss
anything,
so if you're given uniforms—make sure to keep them spotless!”
I'm only halfway listening—the brand upon my arm burning when I heave the empty cauldron back to its position between the other two. Hue disappears, only to reappear with a rag drenched in water. When I rub the brand angrily, he snatches my arm and places the rag upon it. Rolls his mismatched eyes when they meet mine.
“And your brands—make sure you keep them clean. No one wants to see a scullion with half an arm—infection will turn it black. Old Brutus will have to cut it off—the guy who branded you all. He's not so bad, though. 'Specially with cripples.” he snatches his hand away, his free hand taking mine and harshly pressing it to the rag. The sensation is cooling and I sigh. “Unless you want to be on his good side—then go ahead and let your brand get nasty.” Hue spits as a boy scrubbing the table near my heels snickers. I avert my eyes, pursing my lips as I rub at the rag.
The night goes on like this. Us clearing away this mess the cooks have created. In a way, the mindless scrubbing reminds me of Shanti's loom room. Reminds me of separating fabrics and sweeping to the sound of a daytime breeze.
My mind snaps back to the present.
She's gone.
“There's a nightwatchman that comes round after midnight, you can never predict when—he just
comes.
But when you hear me whistle—get ready to stand at attention. Like
this,”
and he jumps up to standing from the floor near the ovens. His hands black as he clenches them into fists at the sides of his moth eaten breeches. “and just stand still as I report. Sometimes he's a toad and he'll make us do latrine duty—but he's not always the same guy. They switch up—ya'll might see some of your brothers from Felicity one night. If you're lucky—which
none of us are.”
and he laughs at his own joke, bending down before he stuffs himself back into the black mouth of the oven.
I continue scrubbing the insides of the cauldrons, scratching at icky pink goop that has hardened to reddened slime. Dusty hair and I take turns bringing our rags to the large tin tub near the kitchen's black sand pit. Helping each other out as Hue drones on and on. When I dunk our used rags into the gray water of the tub, squeezing them and kneading out the dirt, Hue pauses from his spot at the stoves. Shoves himself from the blackened mouth, and hisses a high-pitched
screech
of a whistle with two blackened fingers rammed between his lips.
I knead the cloths once more, the water up to my wrists as I hear the quiet
clack
of heels upon the floor outside.
“
Get up—get up!”
Hue hisses at the room.
I stand—we all do—the rags clutched between my fingers as I turn towards the door and tense my body.
Near the stone ovens, a sliding wood door is ripped open. Air from the corridor blows at us, as an armored man with a black scarf tied high above his nose peers into the room with sharp yellow eyes.
“Report, scullions.” he almost sighs, leans upon the frame of the door as his eyes rove the room.
Hue approaches the watchman. Stands at attention. “Five scullions—four new joins from the Felicity conscripts, sir.” Hue takes in a sharp breath of air before relaxing his shoulders. “Anything new, Badger?”
Badger rolls yellow eyes as he pushes himself from the archway. “You see that one?” he asks. Points.
The finger is rammed at me.
“You ain't supposed to have shit in your hands when you're at attention,
boy
. Drop the rags.”
I bite my lip—let my fingers go. The rags fall as a single gray drop of water drips from my pinkie and onto the floor.
“What's your name?”
My eyes widen. “Kokoros, sir.” I blurt—heat rushing to my face. Tears.
“You're on the latrines, Kokoros. You and Hue.”
Hue lowers his shoulders—but nods curtly. “Sir.”
Badger returns his nod, “I'm checking them at dawn, Hue. You know how it goes. Make sure the runt gets in there
deep.”
a quick snicker—sharp teeth.
“Right, sir.”
And he slams the door in Hue's face. Hue sighs, throws me a look.
I think to apologize—but I'm frozen.
How could I have known…?
