I set the tray down on a nearby table and stepped forward.
“To be ripped away from your family, your friends? To never see them again and for them to lose you? And for what? To go serve some mysterious purpose for some stupid gods?”
Gasps arose around me but I didn’t care. I was inches from the fool now, my finger pointed right in his haughty face.
“Or maybe the Culling kills you,” I exclaimed, throwing my hands into the air. A maniacal laugh slipped out and I leaned into it. “I mean, we don’t know, right? No one’s ever come back from it to ask. But you’re sure, you’resosure, that the Culling is a good thing, that any opportunity to serve the Geist is a good thing. But maybe the Geist themselves aren’t good at all. And maybe what they ask from us, what theydemandof us, is too much. Maybe they aren’t worth the sacrifices, the pain. Maybe their blessings are worthless in comparison. Maybe—”
“Adrian!”
Someone grappled both of my arms and lifted me easily—far too easily—off of the ground. They carried me away from the fool, away from Ezekiel and the staring woman and everyone who gaped at me as I was shoved through the back door and into the kitchen.
“By the Geist, Adrian, what were you thinking?” Cyrus released me and ran a hand through his hair. He paced away and sighed, shoulders slumping. “I know you’re upset about Darius, but—”
“No,” I snapped. “You don’t. You don’t know. You don’t know anything about us! You live up here, you and the rest of them,and you worship what put you here because you’re grateful for where you are. But we have nothing to be grateful for, not in the Third Ring, not on the Deck. Even Dahlia was nothing, no one, before she met you and made it through a few of the Trials!”
He flinched, and I took his discomfort in stride, marching up to confront him as I wished to confront the rest of them beyond those doors.
“We starve down there, Cyrus,” I told him, voice barely above a whisper but with rage simmering just beneath. “We starve. And then your priests come down twice a year to tell us how lucky we are, how grateful we should be, that not a single one of us or our ancestors has made it through enough of the Trials to be elevated, that our brothers and sisters are stolen from us and sent on to some undisclosed fate we’ll never know, that we can serve the Geist with our sacrifices, with our pain, with our hunger.”
“I know you’re angry.” Cyrus seemed to be trying to maintain an illusion of calm, despite how pale he’d become and how wide his eyes were. I doubted he’d ever heard anyone speak of the Geist this way. I hadn’t either. Not aloud. “You’re young, Adrian, and I know it all seems so unfair right now. Losing Darius like that. I can’t imagine the pain you’re in. You or Dahlia. But to blame the Geist—”
“Fuck the Geist.”
I turned and stormed from the kitchen, out into the world beyond the House of Valin.
Chapter Four
“There is no ritual more secretive, more important, or more transformative in all of Sanctuary as the Oathtaking. The Oathstone burns a man from the inside out and creates something new from the ashes of his mind.”
—The Journal of Rainier, 378 Genesis Age
Anger was a curious thing. Particularly when compounded with grief. It never left you, not really. It just lingered somewhere beneath the surface, churning and awaiting a trigger. Something that would set you off, something that would remind you it was there. And then you would explode over the most preposterous thing. That was how it was during the week following the Culling.
I went to my mother’s house after I exploded at the House of Valin’s party. I didn’t tell her what had happened, didn’t tell her why I’d left my shift so early, didn’t tell her that I was there only because I didn’t want to risk going back to my apartment. But she didn’t ask. She made me a late lunch, some leftover bread and soup from dinner the night before, and sat with me without a word. I ate, aware that her eyes were on me even asshe pretended to do the dishes at my back, aware of my brothers lingering in the shadows in silence as if afraid they might startle me should they emerge.
I grew so tired of it halfway through my meal, I sighed and looked over to them.
“She told you.”
“Adrian,” Warren said, “I know everyone else your age is competing but you don’t have to—”
“I promised him.”
They fell silent and I stared down at my soup, jaw clenched.
“Then you have to,” Maurice broke the silence first. When I looked up, I found him watching me closely, arms crossed. I gave a slight nod of appreciation, and he returned the gesture, stoic.
“We can’t tell you about it. What to expect, I mean.” Warren sighed. “I would if I could but—”
“I know. You took the Oath.”
He nodded.
“But we’ll still help any way we can,” Maurice offered.
They watched me sadly, no doubt knowing that I was setting myself up for failure. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care if I didn’t even make it past the first Trial. Maurice hadn’t. I wasn’t trying to be a hero like Darius had wanted to become, and my motivation to elevate our family had vanished the moment my best friend had. I was doing this because it was the only thing Darius had ever asked of me. And the sooner it was over with, the better.
My mother opened her mouth but seemed to think better of it, and the kitchen descended into silence again.
