I pocket the grass and rub circles along my throbbing temple.
My companion claps the other guardsman on the back before angling towards me.
I lower my hand, but not fast enough. He strides over, boots resounding against the cavern floor, and my face heats. It’smyduty to be the caregiver, not his. I’m already competing with the ghost of this man’s wife, so the last thing I need is to give the memory of her an edge in my moment of weakness.
He offers up an arm. I accept it with a too-wide smile.
“Something wrong?” he asks, voice muffled by the helmet, while guiding us towards the darkened archways that stretch along the landing chamber’s gray walls like scattered black teeth. Though his eyes are now covered, the side of my face tingles under the weight of his attention.
“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice comes out higher than intended. I swallow, easing the strain. “Why do you ask?”
“I know about your condition.”
The blunt confession weighs down my leading leg. Luckily, the smooth floor accepts the stutter of my footstep, allowing it to go unnoticed.
Even now, ten years after my very public divorce from Chancellor Bren’s son, people speculate that I’m barren and broken. But few are bold enough to acknowledge those rumors to my face. I stare pointedly at my sandaled feet, ignoring the urge to glance at the mangled skin on the back of my left hand where I once proudly wore the branding of my marriage.
“I don’t mean to pry,” he rushes to add. “I only mention it in case you’d like to go slower.”
“I’ll manage,” I reply with what I hope is a reassuring smile. I have no other choice if I hope to earn my keep.
He nods, and we stride past the pair of silent guards manning the transport tunnel’s steel-clad entrance that leads to Deor, one of Caligo’s two brother cities. Though the westbound train rumbles through the ceiling of my cabin with its nightly departures, it’s been years since I last made the eight-mile trek to visit my parents. Longer still since they’ve deigned to visit their only child—and greatest disappointment.
My jaw clenches as we pass beneath the centermost archway into the main stairwell and descend its aged spiral steps. Despite my prior assurance, I tug on my companion’s arm, trusting he’ll interpret it as a wordless request to slacken the pace instead of a discreet maneuver to buy more time.
“About earlier, I’m sorry for pressuring you. I have no intention of replacing your wife.”
He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t realize you had interest in remarrying, especially since . . . well, ya know.”
“I get it,” I say, rubbing at an invisible tear that becomes real as I consider what’s at stake if tonight doesn’t go to plan. “It’s just . . .I don’t want to die.”
It’s a risk. Discovering that I have ulterior motives for courting him—that his convenient circumstance of being a widower with an established family drew me in more than his spirited impressions and clever puns—may wound his pride. But if soliciting his carnal nature is no longer an option, perhaps I can appeal to his empathy.
The purple glow of the sconces mounted to the rough limestone walls shines through his helmet, and I think I see his blank eyes blinking as he attempts to deduce how my urgent desire for marriage links to my fear of death.
I continue, “The selections for the Hunt will be chosen at midnight tomorrow.”
He halts mid-step. My stomach plummets as he shifts his arm away from my grip, fists clenching at his sides. “You want to marry me to get out of being drafted for the Hunt? Why would you want to desert your duty?”
My hands clamp onto the rusted rail along the inner ledge of the spiral staircase that continues for miles, stretching to the depths of this underground haven—a haven that will always protect those like him from the sun and from those mutated by its corrupting light. He’ll never stand before a Sol. He’ll never know the consuming fear that rises with every image of the charred shells of humanity displayed on the ceremonial screen. Not a single Guard of the Gate will ever have to face eviction into the merciless world of light, never have to lose sleep from the looming probability that they will be killed by the golden-veined monstrosities or, worse, become one.
Protection comes at a cost.
Only one of us will have to pay it, and it isn’t the man across from me.
“Myduty?” I practically spit, tone darker and sharper than it should be. Though the lapse in the facade is cathartic, I can’t makea habit of wielding my words like a knife, not if I want to be heard. I take two measured breaths before my voice returns to false levity, its own kind of subversive weapon. “The Hunt is a death sentence.”
“The Hunt is an honor,” he corrects, reciting word for word from Chancellor Bren’s speeches. “It allows those who contribute least to Caligo’s welfare to make the ultimate contribution of eliminating the threat above.”
He speaks matter-of-factly, as if hunting and killing Sols is a simple enough task. As if thousands of women haven’t lost their lives in futile attempts to accomplish that objective. As if I should be eager to follow in their footsteps in the name of honor and duty.
“You really think the only significant contribution a woman can offer is to marry and multiply? Is it not enough to be a hard worker and a considerate neighbor?”
Unwed, childless women are those who “contribute least” to society, according to Caligo’s warped constitution. Strange how everyone seems to forget it was drafted at a time when men were the significant minority after the massacres from the Last War. Although I loathe the notion that single women who hadn’t procreated were seen as more dispensable, I somewhat understand the logic from the repopulation angle. But now that the male-to-female ratio has long since recovered to a near even split, the mandate holds more so out of tradition than necessity. If those of us with uteruses fail to serve as wives or wombs, we risk becoming sacrifices.
He bristles. “Not as much as serving your family. Without a husband or child, you have no direct stakes in Caligo’s future; no one you love who’ll outlive you, who’ll feel the lasting impact of every choice you make.”
I hate that it stings, hate how his regurgitation of the tired narrative stirs up a tightness in my throat. But most of all, I hate my body forputting me in this position—pleading to a man who believes I can’t possibly care for anyone who’ll live long after my death until I’ve pushed a wailing newborn out of my womb.
