What is the secret of the merchant and the tailor?â
I grow weary of this game. Everyone knows this story. âThey are twins.â
âTwins?â He arches a feathery brow. âAnd why should that be kept secret?â
I snort in derision. âFor a high priest, you are awfully unfamiliar with mythology.â One of the priests in black lashes my head with a stritch whip I didnât know was there, slicing my ear. Warm blood oozes under my hair. I canât lift a hand to rub it, and its tickling bothers me more than the pain.
âPardon me,â the Onyx Staff says lightly. âI didnât catch that.â
You donât have to enjoy this, you wicked old beetle. I donât say it aloud. Instead, âThe merchant and the tailor are not human twins, and so do not bear the mark of a priest on their foreheads. They are the offspring of a human being and an Other.â
âAh, fairy tales,â he says to the others. âChildrenâs stories. Isnât that what these are, Beloved?â He holds the storybook up as the group murmurs hesitant assent. âDrivel with no place in a court of law.â
This isnât a court of law. For one thing, there is no judge, jury, or scrivener. There is no list of charges signed by an officer of the Commandant. There is only the Onyx Staff.
The high priest lets the storybook fall to the floor with a thud. âYes, as children, we all heard the old stories of Other princes and princesses, and as adults, we abandoned them. After all, this is the modern age, one of machines and locomotion and equality. Surely we have outgrown fairy tales. Yetâ¦â
At his pause, the priests shuffle their feet nervously.
âYet,â the Onyx Staff continues, âto this day, twins are marked with a priestâs razor so that we may know them as human and good.â He turns to me. âBeloved, what is a redwing?â
âIt is a type of flower,â I say, âthat can cure forty-seven different ailments.â
My answer is technically true, but the priest in black flicks his stritch whip again anyway, now across my back. The crack is more impressive than the injury this time, but I donât want to press my luck further. Next time it could be my eyes.
âYou are absolutely right to scorn such a question, my dear. I doubt these learned people need such a thing explained to them.â The Onyx Staff takes a step, his white robes catching patches of brown light. âOf course, everyone knows redwings do not exist. The beings known as Others have not lived in Caldaras for a thousand years, isnât that right?â He spreads his arms and smiles at the gathering. âIn any case, surely no one who gave birth to a creature as monstrous as a redwing would allow it to live.â
âSurely not,â I say darkly.
âBut,â the Onyx Staff goes on, his voice suddenly quiet and eerie, âdespite what âeveryone knows,â there are those of us who remember a different story. We remain vigilant, beautiful in the eyes of our god.â
The Beautiful Ones.
Now the Onyx Staff addresses me. âYou do not bear the priestâs mark, Beloved, and we know you to be a twin.â A few contemptuous exclamations rattle the thick air. The Onyx Staff looks to one of the purple-robed priests. âBrother Bonner, would you step forward, please?â
My kidnapper detaches himself from the shadowy group and slouches toward me. Not too close. I resist the urge to spit at him.
The Onyx Staff speaks in a calm voice. âThis is the brave young man who discovered the unmarked twin in our midstâthe monster.â He turns to Bonner. âAll of Caldaras owes you a debt of gratitude, Beloved. Now, if you could do us one more service.â
Bonner nods. âAnything, Your Benevolence.â
âI would like you to answer a question,â the high priest says. âHow can we identify a redwing?â
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