Page 26 of Love, Nemesis
Lethe returned the lever to its former location, waiting as Cal recovered himself.
“I’m here on orders from the Var. We’re here looking for war heroes that might share information on The Ocean’s War with the State—give us an edge against the Mystics.”
The crowd around Cal, which had been snickering and exchanging commentary, fell silent.
“The war had no heroes,” Lethe replied as if answering for them all. It was a common saying, mostly meaning that there were no praiseworthyheroicsin the war.
“So I’ve heard, from everyone in the last town and the town before that. I’ve sacrificed time back at the State for this. It’s been almost two years in the State since I left.”
“Then you messed up.” Lethe removed a pocketknife from his belt. He knelt, slicing Cal’s bonds.
“But why? The State protects En Sanctus from being overrun by the Mystics. We’re the world’s best chance at peace. We’re on your side. Unlike them, we want to fight The Eating—Ouch!”
Lethe whipped the rope off, hard and fast, jerking Cal forward before muttering hurriedly, “Watch your mouth around these people, kid,” and then louder, “Dawson, get this Statesboy a seat.”
Cal recoiled from the rope burn but said nothing else.
“You’ll leave in the morning,” Lethe added.
Someone pulled him up, shoving him toward a bench near the fire. He looked around reluctantly before someone else, in a gentler manner, invited him to sit.
Jamie hurried up to Lethe, offering him a drink. He took it.
She peered past him as he took a sip and then circled him so she could watch Cal. A woman placed a plate in Cal’s hands, patting his shoulder.
Someone poured oil on the fire. It rocketed up toward the sky, transforming men and women into shadows hovering around it.
“Fire and wine, she lights my soul! A heavy spear on cupid’s bow!” a group of people on the other side of the fire sang, each with a sloshing mug in hand. “I’d give the world to make her mine—trade gold for fire and wine!”
Lethe dropped onto the bench next to Cal. Cal rolled the Atlas in his hands, and Lethe watched it as the glass bent the rolling light of the flames. “Put that thing away. It’s depressing.”
Cal obeyed, taking the mug from Lethe after returning the Atlas to his belt.
“I’m sorry I was reckless,” Cal said. “I wasn’t thinking I was putting anyone in danger.”
Lethe resisted the urge to say something sarcastic. He was just a boy, about the same age as the ones Lethe helped train.
Lethe could feel Cal studying him, kind of hoping he wouldn’t ask questions.
After several minutes, Lethe eventually lost himself to the wonder of the fire. He could make out faces inside it, layers of expressions changing like flashes of lightning. He felt a strange calm and felt his soul dipping into a cool pond of melancholy. He took another drink. He sank deeper.
“What’s that?” Cal said.
Lethe dropped the mug away from his lips to see Cal staring at his left forearm. He tilted the mug in his hand, exposing his wrist before pulling back the sleeve of his shirt. “It’s called a Dear Anne,” Lethe said, exposing the list of seventeen names tattooed on his forearm, framed in intricate designs that wound up to his shoulder and neck.
“A Dear Anne,” Cal whispered, and then his eyes widened. “You were a Rider of Saint East? A war—”
Lethe put his finger to his lips.
Cal lowered his voice. “But the Riders guarded Saint East. Your group sheltered thousands of people from the Strike. If there were heroes, then of all of them—we read about Saint East,” he said, and then inspected the ledger on Lethe’s arm. “If I remember, Dear Anne’s were a lifelong commitment to serve and protect the people you were assigned to.”
“Depending on which version of the Riders you joined. You forget we weren’t so friendly when the Strike’s rise forced us underground,” Lethe said, watching as Cal examined the scars burned through all but one name. He smirked at Cal’s childish enthusiasm, like a boy at the zoo watching a poisonous snake through the glass.
When the world had been all but completely subjugated by the Strike, many had worshiped them. The decision of the ROSE to fight back was not only radical; to many, it was sacrilege. Branded as a cult, the ROSE had lived in hiding in the mountains, but that was the cleanest version of the story.
The truth was, the first wave of the ROSE that had protected the sanctuaries in the East were often revered. Those who had killed the Strike, however, were now seen as being as dark and vile as the Strike themselves.
Lethe couldn’t blame them. He scared himself sometimes. It had taken a monster to eat a monster, and as it often was with eating, Lethe felt like the Strike were a part of him somehow, woven through his blood. He was not part of the first stage of the ROSE. The names tattooed on his arm were not people he swore to guard. It was an entirely different kind of commitment.
