The Hour of Dust and Ashes (26 page)

“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 order to 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 …

“And then, one day, she stopped coming. But during her visits, I heard her. Every word, I clung to. And when she was gone, it started a seed in me to practice remembering her visits—I think it helped me to remember the outside world. I grew in body and in power, but I never lost myself. The memories … are hazy, but part of me stayed disconnected from the grid, and in time that disconnect grew until I was able to break free. I’m not sure exactly how it all happened.”

I bit my lip, wondering what had happened to her, this siren who had given him the strength and purpose to break free.

“She didn’t wait for me, if that’s what’s making you bite your lip,” he said with a small smile.

“I’m sorry, Hank.”

“I’d been gone for a long time; couldn’t expect her to wait forever.”

But he would have. I could tell in his voice. He would have waited for her if the roles had been reversed. I knew it down to the very marrow of my bones.

“So you broke free,” I moved on, not wanting to think about it. “Wouldn’t they know immediately? The rings around the city would’ve failed, right?”

“Yes. My ring simply stopped working. Disappeared.
I remember coming to on the floor of the tower. The Circe and the king were there. I was weak. My speech was unintelligible at first, but memory brought it back. I found enough words to tell them the truth, what the tower does to you. They refused to believe. But I think even the king had suspected as much. And they didn’t want anyone else to know the truth. They told me I was a traitor, a weakling, and as punishment they tried to force me back into the grid …”

Hank stopped talking, and the ravine filled with the sound of running water and the shuffling of our footsteps.

“I fought,” he said quietly, though his tone was deep and echoing in the confines of the ravine. “I fought for my life. I was crazed and angry, and it gave me more strength than I should have had. I felt hurt, confused, and betrayed—a six-year-old in heart and mind, but with the body and power of a full-grown siren. And they didn’t care. They never had …” His voice took an almost embarrassed quality. “There were no guards. I think because the Circe didn’t want anyone but them and the king knowing the truth. They let the king deal with me. And I guess they thought I was too weak for them to bother with using their great power. It all happened so fast. We struggled and somehow I managed to throw the king into the grid. It attacked him at once and there was no way to fight it off.” He said it like he was ashamed.

“Good for you. The bastard deserved it.”

He glanced over at me with an odd mixture of bewilderment,
humor, and regret. “Well, it wasn’t an accident. I meant to prove my words. I told him if it was simply a matter of choice, then he could leave as he wished. While the Circe were distracted with the king in the grid, I ran. It’s a blur. My memories of Fiallan were that of a child, but I knew my home, remembered it. But I knew if went there, they’d find me.”

My throat thickened, but I forced down my emotion with a hard swallow. “So where did you go?”

“Outside of the city. That part was easy enough. The rest was … not so easy. I spent years roaming, living like a scavenger, eventually making my way into the woods of Gorsedd—fae territory—where a sidhé fae Elder took me in. Edan taught me the basics, how to care for myself, to bathe, to shave, how to eat properly, read and write, how to defend myself both physically and mentally.

“And eventually he told me the story of the king of Fiallan. How a traitor, a
Malakim,
had killed the king.” Hank shook his head, staring off into the darkness ahead of us. “I wasn’t thinking about murder or that he’d die. I wanted them to know, to hear me … I guess if I’d been thinking straight I would’ve realized no one comes out of those towers alive.”

Except Hank, I thought. “Is that what happened, you think? He was trapped in there like the others until he grew old?”

“No. Edan said the king died shortly after I escaped. I guess the Circe removed him too quickly and it killed him. They put another child in my
place, the king’s son took over the throne, and a bounty was placed on my head. Nearly a hundred years had passed from the time I’d fled until Edan told me the truth. I guess he finally thought I was ready to hear it.”

“And, of course, he’d figured out your part in the story.”

Hank smiled. “From the very beginning, I’m sure.”

“You loved him,” I said, seeing it in his smile, in the admiration and softness in his voice.

Hank shrugged, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “I was with him for almost two hundred years before he died. He made me promise to never go back to Fiallan. He knew I wanted to return, to tell everyone the truth of what
Malakim
really means, but he feared my death even though so much time had passed. He wanted me to leave Gorsedd and make a new life somewhere far away. So I went to Murias—a siren city far from Fiallan. That was … an eye-opener …”

“How so?”

He turned and cocked an eyebrow. “I wasn’t like other sirens, Charlie. I learned everything I could from Edan except for the one thing sirens are known for besides their voice.”

Oh.

He chuckled softly at me, and then gave a nonchalant shrug. “I was a dedicated student.”

“Ha. I bet you were,” I muttered, concentrating on the path. “So how did you wind up in Atlanta?”

“I was only in Murias for a year when the existence
of our world and Charbydon was revealed, and I saw my opportunity to leave Elysia and make good on my promise to Edan.”

“You don’t fear living out in the open? Even if it is in another world?”

He shook his head. “Who would know me? My family hasn’t seen me since I was six. Only the Circe know me as a full-grown siren, and they never leave Fiallan. The only one who knows me is Pendaran.”

“How does Pen know?”

“He was sent to Edan for study one season. Edan was a hermit, but one whose reputation preceded him. One only found his hut if he wanted them to. Apparently he thought the druid worthy and accepted him.”

“You said you and Pen knew each other as children. I guess that wasn’t entirely true, then.”

“Well, I was still a child in a lot of ways, so maybe partially true.”

“That’s a stretch.”

We settled into a comfortable silence as I mulled over Hank’s story. I never would’ve guessed he’d had such a troubled past. He never let on, never walked around with a chip on his shoulder or a woe-is-me attitude.

He’d been through so much. So much betrayal, from his people, his king, even his family. And all the obstacles he’d had to overcome; learning how to function in society again, even learning how to read and write, to interact … I grew angry, so pissed on his
behalf that I wanted to go to Elysia and stop this barbaric practice myself. How cruel—using children to protect a city that didn’t even
need
protecting.

“Do you think your family or the people of Fiallan would listen to your story now?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. My story has passed into something of a legend where I play the villain. My family was disgraced. They denounced me, lost their position of honor that the
Malakim
had always afforded them. I’m sure they’d kill me on sight, if they could,” he said with a wry smile.

“And the sirens in the terminal? You think it was Llyran who told them who you are, what you look like?” Llyran had called Hank
Malakim
. Somehow he’d discovered the truth. And Llyran certainly had the psychopathic drive to find intense pleasure in seeing Hank suffer.

“Him or Nuallan Gow.”

I blinked and my step faltered. “Nuallan Gow? How the hell would the Master Crafter of Atlanta know who you really are?” A mental image of her swam in my head. Black crafter extraordinaire, a ghoul in the guise of a beautiful human, and the bitch who had slept with my husband and tried to have me killed. Nuallan was a plague, a bad rash that kept coming back to haunt me.

“Probably figured it out from my ring. Every
Malakim
is given a ring. It’s special. It grows with you, stays on you from the time you enter until the time you leave. It signifies my family’s contribution to the
Malakim
.”

My stomach knotted. “The ring you bribed Nuallan with to help us spell Aaron’s body when he died.” I stopped. My mouth fell open. “Un-fucking-believable. How could you give her something that could identify you? We could’ve bartered for something else, Hank! Given her another reason to help us …”