Kelly Gay - The Hour of Dust and Ashes

Part of me was cringing inside and hoping to hell he didn’t say something I couldn’t overlook. I wanted at least one hero in my life, one guy who had some honor and dignity. One guy who could open up and tell me the truth. That would be nice, too, I thought darkly as I waited for an explanation that obviously was not coming.

I shoved my stiff arms into my torn jacket and pushed past him. “We should get moving.”

“Charlie.”

Exasperated, I stopped. “Look, just forget it, okay? If you don’t want to share, you don’t want to share.” I whistled to Brim and skirted the pool to follow the path of the running water down the ravine.

“You know what Malakim means?” he asked behind me, frustration hardening his tone, and not waiting for an answer. “It means guardian .”

I climbed over a rock. “Great. Good for you.”

“A long time ago it used to mean something. It was important. Now”—he paused as though searching for the right words—“it’s a tradition, a title, an honor. Like you humans use the term knight . That word used to mean something a long time ago, too. Now it’s just a title given by a king or queen.”

Hank spoke as though Malakim was a death sentence, a horrible thing. “So you were a Malakim ,” I said over my shoulder when he didn’t continue.

Brim dodged in front of me, disappearing beyond the shaft of moonlight shining down from a break above us.

“I was. Our king chose the first Malakim from four families. My family was and still is one of those. We are known for our guardianship and our power. We are—or were—respected in Fiallan.”

Hank stopped talking to concentrate as we picked our way down a steep drop in the ravine. Water fell in a loud stream into a pool below and then disappeared beneath rock. Brim waited for us at the bottom. Above us the ceiling had opened up again, bathing a wide path of smooth gray rock in moonlight.

I waited for Hank. He eased down beside me, brushed off his hands, and then we continued side by side.

“So what? You decided you didn’t want the title?”

“I wish it were that simple. You have to understand what the word means. The first Malakim were chosen as young children because all the grown sirens were off fighting with the Adonai.”

I gave him a surprised look.

“Just because our world inspired humanity’s idea of heaven doesn’t mean we didn’t have our share of war and fighting. At some time or another every being in Elysia has warred with the other.

“Long before I was born, sirens went to war with the Adonai. It lasted several generations. And our territory was reduced to our oldest city, Fiallan. It was our last stronghold. In orto save the city and everyone in it, the king chose four children—sons of his strongest warriors—and placed them into towers made by the Circe—”

“A witch?” I said, immediately recognizing that famous name.

“No. A group of … well, I guess you could call them witches. They are our oldest, most powerful female sirens. Ancient. Heartless. Conniving. They created the towers.” Hank’s voice turned cold. “Prisons are what they really are.”

A bad feeling began to brew in my gut. “What did they do to the four kids?”

“Put them inside the Circe’s towers, where they were eventually drained of power. Their power ran in rings of protection around the city, protecting it and saving it from Adonai rule. This was hailed as our saving grace, these children in the towers. And they called them Malakim . Guardians. To this day Fiallan is surrounded by four towers and between them run four continuous rings of power.”

“How does it work? Does it hurt?”

“It’s … intense at first. In each tower the Circe created some kind of energy field. It’s tuned to the energy in our bodies and into Elysia itself, I think. Once you step onto the platform, it … I’m not sure how to explain … it activates. It attacks. Joining. Drawing your energy out the openings in each side of the tower, and then linking each Malakim .

“To keep the Adonai from ever breaching our world again, they continued the practice. To this day the children are chosen from the four original families. It’s the greatest honor in our culture. But there is no longer any need for the Malakim since peace has been achieved between us and the Adonai for the last thousand or so years. My people continue the practice out of tradition and honor.”

I swallowed. “How long do they stay in the towers?”

“Longer than they want to. They say only seven years. But it’s a lie. It’s difficult to explain. It’s like … being plugged into a grid. Hurts at first but then you get sucked in. You forget there is a world outside of this constant state of power and energy flowing in and out of you. It pacifies you. And when they come to ask you if you’re ready to step down, that your service is up, no one ever wants to leave. No one can leave. The Malakim stay their whole lives, and the Circe will have everyone believe that it is a choice, that they sacrifice their lives willingly. But there is no choice, Charlie. And no one knows it because no child has ever come out of the towers to say so.

“They stay until they are so old and drained, the Circe must forcibly remove them in order to keep the rings strong. And by then they are lost. They cannot communicate. They come out comatose and old and they die a short time later with our city’s highest honor.

“I was six years old when they chose me,” he said quietly, and my heart dropped into my feet. “I was so proud. My family was so proud … There was a great ceremony. The king himself told me I’d be a hero. And to a young boy, it seemed like a wonderful dream. Everyone loves you, celebrates you.”

And he had gotten out. Somehow Hank had escaped this fate when no one else had before him.

“But if I had known,” he went on, “if I’d had a real choice, I never would’ve gone willingly.”

“But your mother,” I said, “and your father—how could they have been okay with that?”

He shrugged. “They were saddened to have me go, but honored just the same. When it’s part of your culture, part of your traditions for eons, you don’t question it. You accept it. They didn’t know the truth. No one but the Circe knows.

“I went into that tower gladly, not knowing that it sucks you in and keeps feeding from you. That is the true meaning of Malakim . You give up living; you give up your life. Those who say they will wait for you don’t; they move on, they mate, they have children. But none of it matters anyway, because you wouldn’t leave even if you could.”

“But you did.”

A long sigh breezed through his lips. We passed through another darkened section of the ravine and clicked on our flashlights.

“How long were you guarding Fiallan, Hank?”

“A couple hundred years. I went in as a boy. I came out as a full-grown siren with no clue how to socialize, how to act, no understanding of the rules of my society. How to read and write, to care for myself. I didn’t understand the simplest things: how to find food, what foods to eat … The grid keeps you sustained and strong. You feed it, it feeds you …”

“How did you get out of the grid?” I asked him.

He paused, a silence that stretched before he finally spoke. “Lidi. She was five. I was six. Our families were close. She was the only one who fought against me going into the grid. They had to subdue her during the ceremony. She was a small child, and no one thought she’d start sneaking into the tower to talk to me, to read to me. Every day before she snuck back out, she promised to wait for me. She did this until she was full grown. For many years, she read to me, talked to me, told me about life. The life I was missing …