Chapter 2: The Merciful One

Lord Solomon stands before us, flanked by twenty Royals who’ve come to watch the show. Other than Papa, none of us have been this close to him before—and likely never will be again. His tall, wiry frame is wrapped in a velvety red tailcoat, brass buttons and buckles glinting in the sunlight, leather liner whispering against itself as the heavy tails sway like the loose canvas flap above.

The scent of jasmine and sandalwood wafts toward us as he steps closer. The fragrance would be heavenly if it came from any other source. He raises his hands to his chin, fingers clasped as if gathering thoughts for some great inspiration. I know better. I’ve heard hundreds of his speeches, hidden in shadows and around corners. The difference between me and most everyone else is I know what bobblegash looks like wrapped in fancy words.

Index fingers extended upward, half-covering his nose, he speaks in that authoritative tone I’ve come to hate. All that’s missing is his podium.

“Yea, though I trek through this barren wasteland of death, I will have no fear. For thou art with me and thou shalt see me through.”

I fight back bile rising in my throat. It’s not the airship’s gentle swaying—it’s his voice. It does that to me.

He drops his hands behind his back, tilting his head as his jaw pops left, tongue hunting for invisible morsels between his teeth. More verbal excrement follows.

“Those were the words I lifted up before the Great Creator exactly sixteen years ago when I was wandering this same wasteland. And the Great Creator not only saw fit to rescue me, but also to honor my faithfulness by appointing me as his representative here in this world. In sixteen years, I have never made a mistake. Never been wrong. The divine discernment that courses through my veins is the reason I was able to construct our marvelous home we call Eden. It is the reason Eden still stands today. A kingdom more glorious than any that has ever preceded it.”

Eden is beautiful, I’ll give him that—at least for the innermost parts.

The city is a marvel of strategic positioning—embraced by nature’s defenses. Fairebourne, the innermost region, nestles against the mountain range that curves around it like a protective arm of stone. Its paradise lies hidden behind imposing walls, a Forbidden Zone for all but Royals, though that never stopped me. Moving outward, you’ll find Vanvale, where Middlers dwell behind their own set of walls, and finally Coghaven, where Plebs like me scratch out our existence in the only section exposed to the wasteland. The cliffs on one side and mountains on the other make the city virtually impenetrable.

Lord Solomon paces before us, his lecture dripping with false humility. “When I drafted the three-level penalty structure, I was met with resistance from the Great Creator. He demanded a harsh death for the slightest infraction of the law. I pleaded with him to allow my children more than one opportunity to redress for their evil doings. And because of the mercy in my heart, he granted my plea. Now, I realize I am the closest any human has ever been to perfect, but I’m not quite there yet. There still remains a minuscule chance I could make a mistake.”

“No, my Lord!” a Royal gasps from the crowd.

“Never, my Lord!” another shouts.

He silences them with an outstretched hand. “So as not to make a mistake with your punishment, I leave you in the hands of the Great Creator. If you survive the Dread Wastes and return to Eden, then I will accept the Great Creator has pardoned you and so, I too, will pardon you. I will restore you to your house and lift you up as a hero to the citizens of Eden.”

Hands of the Great Creator? More like the crushing hands of baldagaars. He knows exactly what he’s doing. By placing our fate in divine hands, he washes his own of our deaths while maintaining his merciful facade. The Royals behind him whisper and sip their kiju, eyes gleaming with anticipated entertainment. They’re waiting for the show—thirteen desperate souls fighting over four weapons and four tankards.

But I won’t dance for them. Not again. I plan to survive today. I plan to survive the Wastes. And I plan to return to Eden.

“I’ll see you soon.” The words escape before I can stop them.

The butt of a long-barrel blunderbuss crashes against my skull, sending me sprawling across the deck. My vision blurs, and the world dissolves into a high-pitched ring punctuated by the protector’s muffled shouts. His words slur together like a drunkard’s rambling.

Blood—my blood—seeps between the wooden planks beneath my face. I touch my temple and examine my crimson-stained fingers. Confirmation I don’t really need. With effort, I push myself back up to my knees, my mechanical feet folded beneath me.

Lord Solomon kneels before me, wiping blood from the gash with his thumb. If I didn’t know better, I might think he actually cared. But this is just another performance in his endless parade of merciful gestures.

“Mend the wound,” he commands one of his handmaids. His Royal Flowers, as he calls them, are always at least three in number. Not all are born of Royal blood—some come from Middler or Pleb families—but all are beautiful. Always ready to assist him with anything he requires…or desires.

The handmaid rushes forward, applying a salve to my head. It stings at first before a cooling relief follows. The ointment is certainly not something we have access to in Coghaven—like so many of Fairebourne’s herbs and remedies.

“Neeka Blackthorn.” He speaks my name like an announcement. “The only person to ever step foot on the Sacred Platform of the Holy Charter and live to tell the tale.” His smile turns toward the Royals. “Well…that is, the only person other than me.”

Everyone believes he can walk the Sacred Platform unharmed because of divine blessing. That’s what he wants them to think. But I know better—have known better since the day I stepped onto that platform myself.

He turns back to me, running his hand across my hair while the handmaid tends my wound. “Ahh, dear Neeka…I can only imagine how thankful you must be that the Great Creator permitted you to keep your life.” He cups my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. “Is it possible your life will be spared once again? Do you think you will be the only person, other than myself of course, to survive the Dread Wastes?”

A contemplative sigh escapes him as he turns my face aside. His fingers trail down my neck, across my collarbone, and along my breast with deliberate slowness. I can sense Papa’s rage burning beside me, imagine him snapping Solomon’s neck. Thank the Creator Papa is smarter than that.

Solomon’s hand reaches my leg, sliding across the metal thigh plate. “Such an exquisite, young thing you are. You could have had everything, been one of my private handmaids. Such a waste the Great Creator took those beautiful legs of yours.”

Too bad I can’t slit your throat with my boot knife, I think, keeping my face neutral.

“A pity…he took your brother,” he adds, voice softening as he holds my gaze.

Every fiber of my being screams to rip his head off. My fingers itch to grab my knife and drive it through his heart. The protectors would kill me, but it would be worth it. Except—no. He’d become immortalized in Eden’s memory. A leader who gave his life for his people. I can’t let that happen. First, I must expose him, destroy the divine throne he’s built for himself. Then…then I’ll kill him.

I meet his stare, my voice steady and sure. “I’ll be Eden’s hero.”

Silence descends. Only the wind dares move, playing with coattails and canvases. My eyes lock with his in a battle of wills while Royals, protectors, and transgressors freeze like statues, waiting.

“I’m sure you will,” he says, his half-smile barely concealing his hatred. “I’m sure you will.”

Rising, he turns to one of his handmaids. “Bring it!”

She steps forward, long black hair dancing in the breeze, clutching a large brown basket against her stomach. Her leather under-bust corset pushes her breasts up and out of her blouse—exactly as Solomon prefers.

He smiles, brushing the back of his hand across her exposed skin before reaching into the basket for a water pouch. One by one, he hands the leather vessels to us, each large enough to hold about a liter.

When he reaches Papa, his voice turns almost gentle. “And you, my old friend…you could have been my right hand. If only things had worked out differently between us.”

Papa accepts the pouch in silence, his face a mask, his eyes never leaving Solomon’s.

One liter of water? It’s barely worth having—though it might prove valuable in the coming battle. Not only will we fight for the weapons and water dropped from the ship, but also to keep these meager pouches we now hold.

Lord Solomon stretches his arms wide, turning in a slow circle to address everyone aboard. “Am I not merciful?” he shouts.

“Thou art merciful!” the Royals and protectors chant back.

Those of us on our knees barely mumble a response.

“Am I not merciful?” He demands again, unsatisfied with the first round of adulation.

“Thou art merciful!” The response thunders this time, even from my fellow transgressors. I keep silent but hold my head low. I’m rebellious, not stupid.

Satisfied at last, Solomon turns to Commander Atwood. “The ship is yours.”

“Transgressors!” Atwood shouts. “Prepare to disembark!”