Page 10 of Grimdark Magazine Issue 48

“Other than sitting to watch a child die, you mean,” she returned with a hint of sharpness. I caught a glimpse of Talenfoier in her response. Only a glimpse. But in that moment I grasped new understanding.

“This is one of the cruciations.”

“Be more clear,” she said, her voice sounding like instruction.

I stared at Seelia. It could have been a trick of the light, but her eyes seemed to have the shine of tears.

“Not a cruciation for the child. Not whatever illness she’s suffering,” I said. “But that we watch her suffer.” I felt my own emotions in my throat. “And are helpless.”

Seelia sat forward, resting her elbows on her knees, which surely put more pressure on her soles. “Physical pain is nothing. You must learn to inhabit it, so that you can understand the pains that matter. Until you do, you’re like that babe. Your little hurts won’t teach you anything.”

“Are you helpless?” I pressed. “Is this child beyond your medicine?”

“Now you’re both arrogant and offensive.” Seelia’s eyes had grown dangerous.

But by that point, I was beyond caring if I offended her, or any Mal for that matter. To mock her—or more precisely to mock Talenfoier—I adopted the tone of a reassuring mother cooing to her babe. “You understand why I ask, I’m sure. Since your ways of refinement could be considered murder of a child.”

Seelia’s face fell utterly expressionless. It was the most disquieting look I’d seen from her yet. My mind showed me an image of her wearing that expression through the worst pain either of us could imagine.

“You will fail beneath the Aerin Loh brands.” She began shaking her head in disapproval. “Not because you won’t suffer through them. You have your rendering skills to block pain or heal wounds or whatever evasion it affords you. So your skin will carry the marks of accomplishment. But you won’t have gained Talenfoier, and the ingot of steel you came for will remain here.”

I showed her a defiant smile. “I may be an arrogant and offensive Sheason. But you, all of you, are so blessedly selfish, I’d ...”

It wasn’t worth finishing that thought, because Seelia and I were both right. Such arguments—where there’s no fault—are a waste of good anger. Besides which, I’d decided to use my energy to live up to her dim appraisal of me.

Returning my attention to the child, I whispered low enough that Seelia couldn’t hear, “Not today, little one. Not you. Not today.” And though it would leave me no Will to self-mend when tomorrow’s cruciation of brands began their work on my flesh, I chose to render what energy I had on behalf of the child.

Quietly, I let my mind expand to gather in a sense of my own current vitality. The process, Weighs of Resonance, took just half a moment’s time. But in that instant, I knew the shape and cost of my own life’s breath. I knew how much of it I possessed—after so many sessions in Jaimen’s chair—and how much I could afford to give.

Still holding the babe, I moved my left hand to cradle her head. The feel of downy hair and soft skin on my rough fingers lent a kind of confirmation to my choice. It had to do with the unspoken expectation little ones should rightly have of the rest of us. It stirred me. Made me feel bold.

I began a soft, hum-like recitation. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t necessary. But I wanted the child to hear the sound of the words that described what I meant to do. She wouldn’t remember them, of course. But her heart would know them. Years from now she’d recognize their sound, were she to hear them again.

Seelia leaned forward. Not to intervene, but to hear.

If she was listening closely, what she heard wasn’t the sound of words attacking imperfections in the child’s blood. The simplest mistake a Sheason can make is to try and correct a problem, reverse or undo something. Effective rendering is done by simply declaring the desired state of a thing.

A man who’s been unfaithful to his wife grows bitter and weary trying to repent and amend his infidelity, rather than simply living forward, living faithfully. That’s the problem with religions like Reconciliation.

A woman can spend a lifetime trying not to repeat mistakes she feels her parents made, rather than simply being the kind of mother her own child needs. That’s the problem of blame.

Leaders spend years drafting laws to dictate what people may not do and the penalties that follow criminal behavior, rather than publishing what manner of citizen we should aspire to be. That’s the problem of government.

So I didn’t focus on what ailment tainted this child’s blood. Instead, I focused on the idea of clean blood. I formed a perfect image of a strong heart and veins coursing with life. A moment later, my body slackened in the shallow rocker, weaker by half.

But the silence that followed, as the child ceased her hoarse mewling, would be a sound I’d remember a good long while.

Much later, still sitting in the peace of that silence, Seelia whispered, “I told you not to intervene.”

I looked at her and offered a weary smile. “I notice you didn’t try to stop me. Thanks for being my accomplice in this crime.”

Seelia’s face was beautiful when she returned my smile.

* * *

Mother of gods did the hot iron hurt. And the stench of burnt flesh was constant. But the sessions passed more quickly than those with the knives. And before most Mal had taken their midday meal, I was back on my narrow bed, sweating freely. The ironwork (so called by my refiner) caused a daily fever in me.

Eventually, the searing pain ebbed enough that I could sleep. A carafe of room-temperature water and a supper tray of plain wheat bread and dry cheese were always waiting for me when I awoke. I ate them in my garden, where I sat with my shirt off, letting the cool shade ease the pain of the brands on my stomach and down the sides of my torso.