The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [97]
With ease, he sat up.
Two old humans were here with him—the tiny, naked man, who called himself the castellan, and another—taller, skinny—completely swaddled in rags, face hidden by a mask. They both watched him.
Path examined his forearm—a metal rod, delicate chains, fingers of wire and cloth and linked knuckles. His legs were spindles, set into a leathern hip.
“Stand,” said the castellan, eyes moist. “You can stand.”
Miraculously, path did manage to get to these feet. He tottered. Moving the fingers of each hand, slowly, testing the commands, he felt the digits flex. He rotated each wooden foot. Putting the wire fingers against his chest, he felt the strong beat of his heart.
“A lifetime ago,” said the castellan. “I wanted a daughter, but she . . .”
Path glanced at the man. The spirit of the mother ship had downloaded as much as it would. He felt the spacer acknowledge him, far above, as he moved. “I have no parents,” he said, as gently as possible. “That was part of the deal. I am an orphan and will remain an orphan.”
Bodies were scattered about down here. Children had died since leaving the fold. They had fought each other. Many had died. This understanding brought sadness. Only four of her brood remained alive—
He took a step, his first ever, toward the edge of the table.
Black wings draped the ground. With his back arched, Pan Renik’s wobbly legs just managed to keep his weight. He lifted both hands, with huge effort, fists clenched into claws, skin rough and split, burned by the wind.
Though it was hot here, and he could hardly breathe, his mind was clear, like the sky on a blue day.
There were others in this underworld. He heard them. “I escaped the power,” he said. “I escaped the padres. I have sucked in clouds.” Echoes of his words rasped back at him. Stepping forward, sap leaking down over his face, he realized he was blind. Vision exchanged for clarity. He tried to touch the sides of his head but did not have the dexterity.
He stumbled over a body at his feet, took another step forward. A peaceful wind, of sorts, blew through his mind. Soon, Pan Renik would soar again.
“Listen,” panted the fecund, “think you could get off? My back’s killing me.” Her drool writhed in the glow of a lantern, alive with parasites.
There were not many people around. Octavia climbed down. Neither mentioned the miscarriage, if that was what had happened in the river. Filth dripped onto the muddy street from both her and the monster and it seemed that a myriad of tiny snakes and worms continued to drip from the fecund’s skin. She was bony, sunken. They had stopped at the entrance to Hangman’s Alley, smoke thick in the air. Shouts from somewhere very close.
“I should never have left my cell. I feel like I’ve lost my mind.”
“Can you walk?”
“I think so. Octavia, I don’t know what you expected from me. You tore me from my house.”
“You were a prisoner.”
“Not really.”
Sticking close to the market stalls, the fecund walked toward the vendor’s area; beyond, Octavia saw the ostracon. Burning.
She stopped, breath catching in her throat. Kholics clustered, some sitting, dazed on the road, others lying on the mud, perhaps even dead. Smoke rolled from windows and down into the street. Clouds were red as embers.
A wall crashed down with a roar and a shower of sparks, sucking flames from the interior of the ostracon that rose, triumphant.
Men catcalled from the perimeter of the glow. Within, trapped kholics screamed.
Mummu had survived the war. He did not know this achievement was remarkable; his awareness was dim at the best of times. He had no knowledge there had even