I knew from the Domestics that High Houses paid good Cold for those images to hang on their walls. The Closed Eye was everywhere. Most Nobles displayed the symbol on a necklace, but I also saw stout-brimmed hats with the Eye woven in. Ceramic versions swung on long golden chains. Boilweed sculptures of the Eye, painstakingly glued to precision. A few waterskins, with the Eye painted on their bellies, each drink a reminder of Jadan thirst. Small children holding small cotton pillows in the shape of the Closed Eye, hugging them close, stroking their soft fabric.
‘Micah.’
I gave a start. I hadn’t heard Jadanmaster Geb sneak up on my right.
‘Look up,’ he commanded gently.
As Geb usually did on Procession day, he was adorned entirely in red: crimson robes, a fiery headscarf, and ruby sandals. Those who didn’t know Geb might think the colour scheme was a cruel insult, but in fact, it was a testament to his kindness. After the Procession, Geb often helped the punished Jadans back to their corners, and since he was dressed all in red, nobody had to feel guilty for smearing his clothing with blood.
‘How is the state of your shoulder?’ Geb asked. His face was sombre. I think in a way he hated the Processions almost as much as we did; each one of his Jadans caught was a direct failure for him, meaning a deduction from his pay and seeing one of us hurt.
‘Very good, sir. Thank you for your mercy.’ I made sure to sound properly gratified. ‘And thanks to the Khat for his mercy.’
‘Well said.’ He gave me a satisfied nod, his garnet earrings rocking back and forth. ‘You give your people a good name, Spout.’
‘I try to, sir.’
He gave a sad gulp and then walked off to find a spot near the Temple. I checked my slave stance as the Nobles continued to spill onto the street. Finally, the bells rang out, the crowd quieting.
The Procession started.
I couldn’t see their faces, but I could hear the chains swinging between their legs as they were marched down the street. A part of me was always glad I couldn’t lift my head at this stage, as I was never eager to witness such a dreadful display.
A few taskmaster feet marched alongside the row of the damned, their dirty toes peeking from their sandals, plagued with fungus. Jadans only got one bucket of steaming water a month to bathe with, and it was a mystery to me how we managed to stay cleaner than the taskmasters did. ‘Hate poxes the skin faster than Sun,’ Abb had once said to me.
The chains rattled heavily, chiming with the sound of excitable Nobles ready to catch the demonstration. The Jadans were led to the front of the Temple, my brothers and sisters gathered up onto the lowest step. I could feel their fear coursing through the streets, making my heart clench.
We all knew what was coming next.
I heard the crackle of the blade before I saw the fire.
The Vicaress of Paphos.
‘Heads high!’ Jadanmaster Geb yelled down the street. In one motion, we all lifted our heads.
The holy figure slid down Arch Road, all poise and grace.
The Vicaress – like all the women in the Khat’s family – was beautiful. She had a light complexion, and eyes of a startling blue that was never found in Jadankind. She wore a dress fashioned from dark, fine silk, which clung tightly to her body’s every curve. Her long black hair was styled above her head, decorated with a gold pin adorned with a Closed Eye. In her hand, she held a fiery blade straight above her head, the metal collecting angry light from the Sun and casting it around the street. A ring of flames blazed along the circular hilt, dripping tongues of fire into the sky. Although they sometimes licked at her hands, she never flinched. Rumour had it a Vicaress held a truce with pain itself, agreeing to give it out with merciless expertise, and in return, she’d never feel any herself.
Flanking her sides were two young Noble girls from the Khat’s close family. They wore sun-dresses of the purest white and faces stretched with glee. Each girl carried a basket overflowing with Rose of Gilead petals, ready to be laid at the Vicaress’s feet. They laughed as they plucked handfuls of the red petals and scattered them about carelessly, littering the street with velvety colour.
Abb had told me there was a huge garden laid out behind the Pyramid which only grew the Roses of Gilead. He said he’d often look out from under the giant slabs of stone on his back and admire the flowers, flourishing under the constant trickle of Cold water.
The Vicaress twisted her blade, the shine from the flames smacking my face. I managed to keep calm, head forward, not twitching; although I thought I felt her eyes go to my forehead.
She passed beside me as the song started.
Always the same song.
The words were a mystery to Jadans and Nobles alike, but the song haunted our dreams. They formed the song that Sun would sing if it ever succeeded in burning the world to sand. Yet it was a lovely melody. Intricate, with long dips and gentle shakes, flowing from the Vicaress’s lips as naturally as pain flowed off the end of a taskmaster’s whip.
Some of the Nobles along the street tried to join in, muttering along. But the melody was too complex for humming. A particularly jolly couple near me were swaying their fingers in the air, trying to predict where the notes might go, although it proved too difficult for them. They smiled brightly with each misplacement, popping Khatberries into their cheeks, red juice dripping down their chins.
Even from my corner, the fear coursing through the veins of the chained was palpable. I thought about my Cold Wrap, and how quickly I’d be added to the Procession if any taskmaster discovered me wearing it. I’d never felt the Vicaress’s blade, but each victim said the same thing: it was pain you could never prepare for, and once you felt the burning slice, you forever trembled every time you stepped off your corner.
From stories around the barracks, I knew Abb had been tortured in the Procession twice, both times before I was assigned to him, but he’d always refused to tell me anything more about it.
Down near the end of Arch Road a Noble voice yelled, ‘Burn them all!’ He was half-heartedly hushed by a few voices in the crowd, but the cry was mostly overlaid with titters and huffs of agreement.
The Sun shone directly overhead, pouring onto the fiery knife. The Vicaress continued to flow down the road, blade high and reverent.
Eventually she made her way to the front of the Arch Road Temple, the Noble girls emptying the rest of their baskets with a shake before skittering off to the side. At last the Vicaress stood still before the chained.
She lowered the tip of her scorched blade, drawing it back and forth between the prisoners’ faces. A few tensed up, but I think most were in shock. The taskmasters stood behind the small bodies, making the chained look ever feebler.
The Vicaress’s blade drifted to the leftmost Jadan, and we all cringed in the knowledge of what was to come. Only the sacred word would keep them alive, but the space where the declaration ended was also the place where the torture began.
The first Jadan was a little younger than me. His legs trembled, while the edges of his face seemed to melt from fear. His shirt showed signs of tearing where a taskmaster must have already taken out his own punishment.
The blade waited to cleanse him of sin.
‘Unworthy!’ the boy pressed out, his voice nearly breaking with effort. It was said that the louder you made your status known, the less time the fiery metal sizzled in your body.
Every Noble on the street cheered at the word, waving their Eyes. A child near me tossed his plush Eye into the air, catching it with a huge smile.
The Vicaress nodded to the boy’s taskmaster. Meaty paws held his shoulders as the Vicaress chose her point of entry.
The