Allegories of the Tarot (10 page)

***

All the Arcana were marked with a brand on their back
when they were brought into the King’s Circle. I remembered the ceremonies:
incense, candles, a night of fruit and cheese. No one went hungry on the
induction night of an Arcana member. I knew I was Arcana before I felt the
small mark etched on my hand between my thumb and index finger. I felt souls,
felt when they trembled,
felt
when they needed my
touch. Souls were tender blooms within a person, but sometimes fear or anxiety
or sorrow choked them. Sometimes the bloom needed a little strength to break
free.

I remembered sitting beneath a rickety roof and
looking over at my Mama as she tried to smash berries in a bowl. I stared at my
mother’s hunched shoulders and shining eyes and saw the petals of her soul
drooping. I asked her, “Mama, why is your soul tired?” She stiffened and jerked
toward me in alarm. Her eyes searched my face, neck, shoulders, until they
settled on my right hand. She fell to her knees, the bowl splintering into a
hundred shards. She lunged forward, snatching my hand in her own.

That is when I saw the twining symbols decorating my
skin.
Arcana.
I nearly hiccupped with laughter I was
so excited. Mama yanked me to her chest and smothered my sound. She wailed to
the gods to take my gift away. I felt her soul then, her strength withering
away into sorrow and fear. I caressed it, whispering,
I am Strength, Mama.
Lean on me and yours will not wilt.
But fear already had its hold on her.
She wouldn’t let me be taken.

She lit a fire and dragged me over to the flames. With
desperation breaking her voice, she whispered “I’m sorry,” and shoved my hand
into the fire. I don’t remember how long I screamed, but I do remember every
tear that slid down Mama’s face.

***

I ran my fingers over the gnarled flesh. It had been
eight years since my mother burned off my mark. Mama told me the Arcana would
steal me away, torture me. Ruin me. I didn’t believe her until the day I
disobeyed her...it was the last day I saw her alive.

I crouched in the alley away from the crowds. I wasn’t
near the procession, but I knew the Arcana were here. I felt them, like a
prickling on my skin, an ache in my bones, a phantom limb throbbing, a scream
scratching at my throat. The procession had begun, but I didn’t want to see it.
The streets were riddled with broken and bruised faces, reaching into the path
of the Arcana, towards the pristine red robes flapping in the wind—as if the
gods themselves knew who marched through the city. The Arcana glided through
the streets without even a passing glance to those who worshipped them, those
who reached with scarred, withered arms in hopes of salvation. I knew the
scene, knew it so well.
Because there was a day, when I stood
reaching too.
I gritted my teeth and shook the memory away.

The hum in my palms vibrated within me. I clenched my
fists tighter.
No.
I bit my
lip,
those
heartless bastards were no part of me. I was classless.
Outcast.
Just another lost and broken soul waiting to die—hopefully, before one of the
King’s Hoard raped or tortured me, or threw me into the arena for the king’s sport
of Lion Fighting. I sneered at the word “fighting”. A weak, starved person
facing a lion in the arena as the city watched cheering. I never knew if the
crowd cheered to give the “fighter” hope, or because they were crazy with
bloodlust. But as I heard their twenty-one distinct calls whisper in my mind,
and my own reaching up to reply, I knew I was lying to myself. I was not just
another citizen of Zorilah. I was Arcana. The last one unfound. Pain shuddered
through me as I denied my call.

***

I was eleven when I first saw the Arcana outside the
induction arena. The electricity thrummed against my skin. A fierce
need
to be one of them, to march with pride and honor
alongside them grew within me. I lunged for them: “I am here, my Arcana! Take
me home!” I nearly flung myself into the procession. The Arcana heard me, their
eyes slanted and piercing. Their voices boomed in unison, “Who said that?”

Mama pulled me out of sight, anger and fear swirling
in her eyes. “If they take you, you’ll be a slave. Alina, if they take you,
they will use you up until you have nothing left.” She kissed my hands, her
lips lingering for just a moment longer on my scars. Tears streamed down her
face. “Hide.” She pushed me away so hard I fell against the pavement. By the
time I looked up, Mama had run out into the street, screaming “Here I am! I am
the one you are searching for.”

That was the last day I saw Mama alive.

***

I shook my head. No, I stayed in the shadows, waiting.
They would not find me today.

I flinched as I heard a twig behind me break. Before I
could turn, a hand snaked its way around my waist, another over my mouth so I
couldn’t scream.

“I’ve been watching you for days, my sweet. Now you
are alone, I can have my taste.”
A Hoarder.
His breath
felt hot and putrid against my cheek. I squirmed, bucking and wriggling, trying
to get free, but then I felt a knife point on my neck.

A wet tongue slid up my cheek. I nearly gagged when I
heard the man’s gravelly moan. “You taste good, darling. I think I will eat you
up.”

The Hoarder started hiking up my skirt, his rough,
calloused hand on my thigh. I would be defiled in this very alley, shivering in
shadows. Was this punishment for hiding from the Arcana? Was this really worth
it? Twenty-two humans touched by the gods who could change the course of
history and a sixteen-year-old girl about to be raped in a rotten alley was one
of them. I felt a single tear slide down my cheek. Even if I screamed, no one
would come. Our city was riddled with screams and tears—all courtesy of the King’s
Hoard.

I let the power inside me roar to life, the inner
vibration making me dizzy, but I felt the tingling in my palms. I lifted my
hand to the Hoarder’s forearms and closed my eyes, searching. The man’s soul
seemed like black tar sticking to my hands. I wanted to flinch back, but I knew
I had to be patient, whisper and nurture the goodness that might be suffocating
in the blackness. I called to it, urging it to come out.
I am strength. I am the quiet whispering of your
soul,
your strength will bloom in my hand.
My Call echoed out into the shadows,
even as my physical body felt the roughness of the man’s hands fondling, his
tongue darting out to taste my neck, my face.
His fingers
crawling their way up to my breasts.
The fabric being
ripped from me.
I couldn’t think about that now. I had to focus.

I called into the shadows coalescing around me.
I am the quiet whispering of your
soul,
your strength will bloom in my hand.
I stood in
silence, waiting.

But there was nothing to reach for. This man’s soul
was nothing but rot and decay. There was no light in him left. No real
strength.

My eyes flew open and my senses assaulted me.

I needed to fight.

He roughly turned my head towards his and his chapped,
wet lips crushed against my own, just as he started unbuckling his pants. I bit
him. I bit down until I tasted blood spurt in my mouth. He yelped, loosening
his hold. I jammed my elbow up and back, straight for his nose. Swiveling
around as he hunched over to catch his own blood, I kneed him in the groin and
turned to run after spitting on his hunched form, and skidded to a stop. I
tensed. I felt them before I saw them.
A subtle
electricity in the air, a pulse tapping against my skin.

Their Calls slammed into me. I wasn’t prepared and my
power, already thrumming on my fingertips, sang to them, betraying me. I
swallowed hard as I saw the Arcana’s red robes flutter into view.

It only took a few moments for the red robes to fill
the narrow space

The King’s Arcana.

I squared my shoulders and faced them. I would not
cower, run, or hide.

I also would not kneel as was law.

They stopped before me, silent. Hoods covered their
faces. Their voices echoed in my mind in an eerie chorus.
Why have you been
hiding, sister? Don’t you want to bring glory to your King?
Tension
crackled in the air.

My mind seethed, screaming. I wasn’t sure if they
could hear me, but in my mind I screamed so loud it shook the earth.
I am
not a slave. There is no glory left on the throne.
Just an
old man and a black heart.
Just a beast
who
has
brought my city to its knees.
I gritted my teeth, waiting for the ornate
sword sheathed at the Arcana’s waist to slice off my head. I would prefer to be
killed in this alley, than wear those red robes, than to wear the mark on my
back.

Silence lingered, threatening.

Then one of the Arcana lowered his hood. He had a
shock of black hair and pale, perfect skin, which looked so familiar. Where had
I seen his face before? He moved so quickly I couldn’t even jerk back. He
grasped me by the hands, our palms touching. I gasped as his soul burst to life
under my touch.
Black earth under a bright sky.
His
call reverberated in my mind.
From these ashes, we will rise. I am the eve
of the Rebirth. I am Death.

I yanked myself away from him, stumbling to the
ground. He was a man now, but I knew who he was...the timbre of his rolling
words, the black hair falling into his eyes, those grey, stormy eyes. I
swallowed hard. There he
was,
the messenger of my
dreams.
My solace in the night.

Death.
He
was Death.

His face of hard lines softened. Did he know me? Did
he ever dream of me? I was surprised when his cheeks colored slightly and his
jaw set as if he could hear my thoughts. His lips quirked up at one corner and
he grinned at me. “Not a slave?”

His words cracked through my awe. I shuffled to my
feet and stood to face them all, my features trained into a fearless
expression. He
could
hear my thoughts. “Yes.”

“Nothing but a black heart on the
throne?”

I clenched my fists tight.
Just do it. Kill me and be done with it.
“Yes.”

He still stared at me. “A black heart
who
has brought your city to its knees?”

Dying babies, wailing mothers,
screaming daughters, starving men.
People hiding in tunnels
like rats only to be dragged out and raped or worked to death. This was my
city.
Broken.
I was surprised when my voice quaked.
“Yes.”

Death stepped forward. “That is exactly what we wanted
to hear.”

The Arcana all removed their hoods and laid their
hands on each other’s shoulders, the final two resting their palms on Death’s
back. They looked to me and I blinked away my confusion at the expression of
pure exhaustion and desperation. Death lifted his hands and in a sudden
movement grasped my own, pulling me closer.

I gasped as the souls of twenty-one Arcana whispered
their weaknesses to me as well as their hopes, their strengths,
their...purpose.

I opened my eyes, quivering.

I knew what was coming.

And I was ready.

Death didn’t let go of my hands as he turned to walk
out of the alley.

I didn’t pull away.

***

The sand felt gritty between my fingertips as I knelt
on the ground. It was the first sunny day in Zorilah in weeks, and it was
blistering. I had spent weeks with the Arcana—beaten by day for the king’s
amusement and trained at night.

“Feel the energy just beyond your reach. It will be
muted, but it is there,” Death said, pressing my hands to the cement as I tried
again to feel the souls in the next room. My eyes clenched shut. Fingertips
grazed my cheeks. “Don’t do that,” he whispered.

I opened my eyes. “Don’t do what?”

“Force it.”

The crowd nearly deafened me. I stared, squinting
across the arena. Despite the chaos around me, I still heard when the lion
roared—a sound so wretched and terrifying
I
nearly
turned to run back to the huge stone doors. My fingers shook on the knife
handle. I heard the clinking of the lion’s chains. I still had a few more
moments before they unleashed him.
Still had a few moments to
run.

I
was chained to the chair, my arms clasped behind me. Judgment, a young man with
flowing blonde hair, and Justice, his twin sister circled me like predators.
Their faces a mask of indifference, but I knew what lurked underneath: despair.
They had carried out the king’s “justice” for so long, and they knew if the
plan failed, they would be in this chamber for many more years handing out
sentences to those who they knew were innocent. They asked me about the hiding
places for the classless, my parents,
my
powers. I
knew what their questions would be. I knew how to answer: with silence. My
silence was met with their whips. Their expressions never changed, but at night
when all was dark and the king slept and the Hoarders roamed, they would come
to my chamber, embrace me and beg for my forgiveness. I never faulted them for
the pain they caused me. I would bear it. During the beatings, however, Death stood
at the side of the king, muscles jumping every time the whip cracked in the
air.