Grace (7 page)

Jerusha was a vision of the future, Keran Berj said, and then Jerusha himself called his parents’ death a blessing. We burned all the papers we found proclaiming that, for while Keran Berj was evil, Jerusha was beyond that. To be so young and so cruel—he was the end of the world made flesh.

We were not the only ones horrified by Jerusha. The letters written by children slowed to a trickle when his parents were arrested, and stopped after their execution. Keran Berj and his God could claim such things were necessary, but it was easy to see that if every child became Jerusha, all would eventually die. And Keran Berj would let it happen.

We saw that and all thought as soon as it sank in that we, the People, were the only ones strong enough to say that Keran Berj was wrong in voices other than whispers, that others would join us.

No one did, and the only smart thing I ever heard Da say was during this time. All of the People had gathered to discuss sending Rorys to villages to try and recruit spies, and after it had been discussed for one day, then two, Da stood up, crabby from being without drink, and spat out, “Following us is certain death. We go to that willingly, but his people won’t. They’re too scared. That’s what the little monster did for Keran Berj, scared them so hard they’ll follow him no matter what. It’s hard to believe you can be free when you know Keran Berj has made it so you aren’t safe with your own family.”

Everyone shouted Da down, but when a group went out, they were greeted with stones and whatever weapons the village they went to could find. As if Keran Berj’s loving care, with his endless demands for money and worship, and his creation of a world where a boy would happily help kill his own parents, was something worth protecting.

Da took me off to be an Angel soon after that, and Jerusha seemed to disappear. Once in a while he’d show up on posters the Rorys would bring back from fighting, and they were put in Angel House for us to study. The picture was always the same, the little boy with the honeyed smile as his parents died, but we all learned Jerusha went to the Keran Berj Academy and spent his summers as a Keran Berj Junior Volunteer Soldier. He was an example to be watched and every year, on the anniversary of his parents’ death, he and the Minister of Defense would visit Keran Berj and sing the new True Song of Praise.

Some of Keran Berj’s followers whispered that Jerusha was dead, but we knew better. Keran Berj only showed pictures of himself when he was young and first came to power. He tried to freeze himself as he was, to act as if he would never age, and he needed Jerusha to be forever young too, because the moment he stood for—the deaths he willingly caused—still struck people cold.

And with Jerusha kept forever young in everyone’s eyes, Keran Berj could use him again. Older and unseen, Jerusha could again do what he had all those years ago. He could be sent out to destroy. He could even come to us, claiming to be a simple soldier wanting a new, true life. And as he reached an age where that was possible, the Rorys killed any young men who came to us claiming they wanted to escape Keran Berj’s world.

It wasn’t enough, and so then an Angel was chosen to find him, to stop him.

Mary was sent.

And she failed.

I
make the signs to ward off evil at Jerusha, not caring if anyone sees, and he grabs my hand. His hand is soft, the skin smooth like a child’s. Pampered from killing for Keran Berj, from being in his care. It makes my stomach roll, a lazy flip that sends the rice I just ate rolling up into my throat.

“I’m not—I’m—” he says, and I pull my hand away.

“You are.” I cannot touch Jerusha. Even I am not that soured in the eyes of the Saints.

And yet I am with him. I am with Jerusha. Jerusha, who killed his parents. Jerusha, who lives in one of Keran Berj’s many palaces, who lives closer to Keran Berj than someone like the Minister of Culture could ever dream.

If I get up now and run, I may be able to throw myself off the train before anyone can stop me. Death would be quick. Maybe.

And even if it wasn’t, even if I somehow landed safely and ended up slowly dying in the desert, it would be better than whatever Jerusha has planned for me.

“Stay still before you get us both killed,” Jerusha hisses, and he is holding my hand again, his grip surprisingly strong. His voice is so cold.

He is Death, and he is here. He has come for me.

I stay still.

I wait for what I’ve always been told is my fate.

T
he train lets out a low, piercing scream as it rounds a corner, and there is still nothing to see but sand. The wind blows it like dust up against the windows.

I look at Jerusha.

I have seen death many times but when it came for me, I did not want it. I turned away. I ran.

And now it has caught up to me again, sits wearing the face of a pale, hollow-eyed boy with a red scar around his neck from where his own parents tried to stop him and failed. With a raw wound on top of it, a gift from an Angel.

From Mary.

I touch my own throat and Jerusha smiles at me. It is a cold smile.

I look away, shaking.

“We can’t all be loved,” he says. “Some of us are just . . . wrong. Keran Berj used to tell me that somewhere two souls were crying because they had a little boy who said he loved them.”

“He lied,” I say, trying to keep my voice strong. To be strong even now. “Why would they cry for you?”

“Why would they? ” he mutters, and then looks at me. “They wouldn’t, of course. They don’t.”

“I won’t tell you where the People are.”

He shrugs. “I don’t care about that.”

“You’ll never find them. They don’t leave paths, don’t need trails. They’re like ghosts, they’re—”

“Silent warriors, the Rorys protected by the Saints, I know,” he says. “The People, beloved by the Hills and all that. If you care for them so much, why did you leave? What did you do? Draw maps in the dirt for Guards in order to get enough food to make your stomach stop shrieking in protest for a day or two? ”

I stare at him.

“It happens at times, and besides, we all know you’re starving,” he says. “How can you not, living around all those trees? No proper ground to plant, no spaces to stay in and work the soil, make it your own.”

“The earth belongs to itself, and I would never—I’m not like you.”

“But you’re here, aren’t you? ” he says, and leans forward, looks into my eyes. I draw back, but not before I see they are brown, like I wish my own were.

“I wouldn’t—if I’d known you were—”

“What? If you’d known I was to travel with you, you’d have stayed behind?”

“Yes.”

He blinks. “You could have . . . . you could have gone home? ”

I swallow. “The People . . . we don’t take life or those of others lightly, for we are not to judge anyone’s path or worth. We are not like you.”

He grins, laughter stretching his mouth wide, though he holds the sound inside, muting it to a silent push of air. His breath smells like mint.

“No?” he says, and I think of the Rorys discussing their fights, their kills. Of how the People would sing the numbers of the dead. Of how I learned the best ways to kill my target and as many of those around him as I could.

“We believe in what we fight for,” I say. “We fight for freedom, to live as we will. All else must be set aside for that.”

“Freedom depends on setting aside everything in its name,” he says.

“That’s what I said.”

“No,” he says. “That’s what Keran Berj said right after he said God told him he was to rule for a thousand years.”

“That’s not the same thing.” It can’t be. I don’t want it to be.

“Yes,” he says. “It is. It’s exactly the same. You kill, we kill, we all mourn the dead and then send more off to die.”

“Not you.”

“No,” he says. “Of course I don’t. You’ve heard all about me, after all. Everyone has. But you—do you feel bad for those who have been killed? ”

“I—” I say, and then stop. I know what he is doing. I know how Keran Berj works, how he tries to twist things around. He has everyone except the People following him. And here, next to me, is the one who killed his own family for him. His voice is not the truth, and Jerusha does not know I was an Angel.

“You were supposed to die, weren’t you?” he says, touching his collar again. “And now that you haven’t, you’re not worthy to go back to the Hills. Not worthy of living in the dirt. How do they do it? How do they get you Angels to talk like that? To believe that? ”

“I’m not ...” I say, and trail off when he looks at me because I see that he knows. He knows everything about me. What I was.

What I didn’t do.

H
ow do you know about . . . about me?” I say, and there is no strength in my voice anymore.

“Why else would you be here? ” he says. “If death was what you wanted, you wouldn’t have gone to Christaphor. You wouldn’t be on this train. You failed at your calling?”

“I—No. Yes.”

“Both?”

I force myself to stay still. To not flinch. I can see why Keran Berj loves him so, this cold boy. “I know all about your world. I know all about you.”

“Of course you do,” he says quietly, and touches his collar once more, fingers pressing against the button that holds it closed, against the wound that lies underneath. “You were trained for it. I know that.”

“I’ve seen what you’ve created,” I tell him. “I’ve been to one of your villages. I’ve seen a silent crowd watch as someone with power came, a Minister of Culture. I saw them say nothing about how round he was, fat from food that had to be given to Keran Berj no matter what because it’s why he says his God wants him to have. I saw a crowd that looked and said nothing.”

“They would die if they said anything.”

“And that’s your doing, isn’t it?”

He looks at me, his face very still.

“In part,” he says after a moment. “It is. You failed. Did you know that? The Minister lives.”

I stare back at him.

“Yes,” I say. “I know. The bomb failed.”

I am dead. But then, I have been dead from the moment he came to me in the train station, haven’t I? I take a deep breath.

“I—I watched the Minister. I watched him rise to speak. When he did I looked up at the sky and it was so blue, like another world, a better one, was there behind it, and I thought, I’ll be there soon, I’ll be there forever and everyone I know will be there forever too, and then I—” I stop.

“Then what?”

I shake my head. I’m done talking. I’ve said too much, more than I have ever said to anyone, but when I look at him, I see that he wants to know more. He wants to hear my story. I don’t know why.

I just know no one else ever has.

“I didn’t want it,” I whisper. “Not death, not forever with the Saints. I didn’t want any of it. I never . . . it was what I had to do but not—”

“What you wanted.”

I stare at him.

“No,” I finally say. “It wasn’t. But now I’m—now I’m here. If I’d just gone back, if I could—”

“They’d kill you,” he says. “And you know it because you’re here. Your People won’t rule with any kindness if they ever destroy Keran Berj, at least not for others. They’ll save it all for the land.”

“And you think everyone is treated kindly now? Have you seen what Keran Berj does to those he claims to love?”

“Yes,” he says slowly, and turns away, looks out the window. “I have.”

I take a deep breath. It is time, and it was foolish of me to think I could ever escape this moment.

“Will you—if you could just have the Guards come and get me now, get it over with. If you could—if you could have it end quickly,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. Trying to not sound like I am begging.

But I am.

He turns and looks at me, surprise on his face.

“Do you—you really think anyone is after you? You maimed the Minister of Culture and nothing more. You think the Minister of Culture truly matters to Keran Berj? You think he can’t be replaced by any number of people?”

“But you’re . . . ”

“I know who I am.”

“And the Guards. They have special orders about the People. I’ve seen them come to the Hills. They’ve tried to kill us all.”

“Oh, they’d kill you if they found you,” Jerusha says. “But Keran Berj doesn’t want your blood. He wants the person who killed the Minister of Defense. He wants the person who took the codes the Minister carried, the ones that open all the doors to all of Keran Berj’s secret lairs.”

He smiles, and it is a horrible thing, crooked and furiously, savagely angry.

“He wants me.”

T
he train slows down once more and Jerusha sits up straighter, fingering his collar again.

We’ve reached another village but this one is smaller than the last, smaller than any of the others I’ve seen. Smaller and more desperate, hands pressed against the train windows before we’ve even stopped.

I watch Jerusha, but he does nothing, gestures for no one. He doesn’t even buy anything, just keeps touching his collar, and so I take out the last of the coins Chris gave me.

I lean toward the window, toward the outstretched hands pressed against it, and Jerusha puts his hand on my arm.

“We aren’t supposed to stop here,”
he whispers.

I look at him and realize he is afraid. Under the softness that hides a heart that would let him watch his parents die, under the iciness and frighteningly, sharply acute tongue—under all of that is something human.

He fears for himself, for he is trying to escape as well, and for now I am safe with him because of that.

I must also show him that he cannot rule me. I am done being what others will.